


Lady Sansa, Wardenness of the North

by K_R_Closson, tasalmalin



Series: The North Remembers [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasalmalin/pseuds/tasalmalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is pregnant, but she still doesn't have a healthy son in her arms yet. Winterfell is in ruins, her family scattered or dead, the North divided. She has returned home, but her journey is far from over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: I'm going to leave a general warning here for references to Sansa's traumatic past and past sexual assault. If a chapter is particularly intense, I will leave an extra warning with that chapter, as well as any other specific warnings that may be relevant.
> 
> This chapter contains non-graphic descriptions of childbirth and breastfeeding.
> 
> Canon Note: KR read about half the first book, and I read the first six pages or so over someone's shoulder at a bus stop. This story is based entirely on the TV show up through Season 5, with some references to the wiki to confirm the names of characters and places. If we watch Season 6, we'll finish this series first. So, don't be surprised as this series gets increasingly inconsistent with George R.R. Martin's plans, secret backstories, and descriptions of magical powers.

Sansa insists on riding a horse into Winterfell despite the prominent swell of her belly.

“I will ride sidesaddle,” she promises. “We will go slow.”

“My lady,” Tyrion begins.

“We can see Winterfell from here,” Sansa snaps. “It is a short trip, and I am going to be on a horse when we walk through her gates.”

She has grown more irritable throughout her pregnancy, but she blames it completely on the trip and the fact that there is nothing for anyone to do but  _ fuss _ over her.

She gets her way.

She sits sidesaddle, her cloaks draped around her to hide her condition as their party slowly approaches the gates to Winterfell.

She can feel the unease as it settles over the men, everyone in the group aware that they might not get a warm welcome here. It’s important that Sansa is the first person recognized, not Tyrion, and Sansa beckons Brienne closer under the guise of having a soldier at her side but in reality to shield her husband from view.

When they reach the gates their procession stops, and Sansa can hear commotion from inside the Keep as people race to figure out what to do with the visitors.

Finally, the window in the gate is opened. “Who seeks permission to enter our walls?” a man demands.

Sansa lowers the hood of her cloak, her red hair spilling out of its confines and catching in the light of the sun.

“Do you truly not recognize me, ser?” Sansa asks, and through the window she can see the man’s eyes widen. “I am Lady Sansa of Winterfell, and I am not here to ask permission to enter. I am here to tell you to open your gates to me and my men.”

“Lady Sansa!” The man exclaims.

Through the gates, Sansa can hear the whispers spread, her name repeated over and over until the gates swing open. 

“My lady,” the man says, bowing deeply. 

It takes Sansa a moment to place him. He is the master of horses. There must be very few personnel in Winterfell if he is answering the gate. 

“Hullen,” Sansa greets, her tone warm. “Thank you for keeping Winterfell safe while I was away.”

“My lady, I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could do. I -”

“I do not hold you responsible,” Sansa promises. “But I assure you that Winterfell will see her revenge. I have brought with me trained men, provisions, and new ravens so Winterfell is no longer cut off from the rest of the kingdoms.”

“Trained men?” Hullen asks.

A crowd has grown in the square, and Sansa has the sad thought that this is all that’s left of Winterfell’s once large population. She sees men and women in dirty clothes, children without the joy on their faces all children should have. Her home has suffered while she’s been away, and she intends to change that.

“Hear me through before you reach for your weapons,” Sansa tells him. Tells everyone, really. “I have come from King’s Landing with my husband, Tyrion Lannister, and some of his father’s men.”

“Lannisters?” Hullen hisses, before he can help himself. 

Immediately, he pales. Around him, the crowd murmurs, displeased.

“You thought I would return on my own?” Sansa asks. “I am a Lannister by marriage and a Stark by birth. I am here because my father told me there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Do you deny the truth of his words?”

“No,” Hullen hurriedly assures her. “Of course not. But, pardon me, my lady. Lannisters have not been kind to those in these parts.”

“Nor have they all been kind to me,” Sansa reminds him. “My husband, however, is bound to me by the law and by the promises we made before the gods. I expect him to be treated with the same respect as I am.”

“Of course,” Hullen says. “There will be people who are unhappy with this, my lady. Not us. We stand behind you. Winterfell is yours. But we do not speak for the North.”

“Let those who disagree take their disagreements up with me personally,” Sansa says. “We shall restore the Great Hall, and I will begin to hear petitions. Let the Houses of the North come here and see for themselves that there is once again a Stark in Winterfell and let them recommit their pledge to this House.”

“And if they don’t?” Hullen asks.

Sansa’s smile is not friendly. “Then I shall have to rely on my second name, Lannister, to convince them. It should be no trouble for my father by marriage to send soldiers to enforce loyalty that my father by birth cannot.”

She watches as distrust turns to awe, but what brings a smile to her lips is the small noise of surprise from behind her. Her husband is proud of what she’s said. She may be able to rule here after all.

She shifts in her saddle, wincing because she has begun to lose feeling in her buttocks.

“Lady Brienne,” Sansa says. “Come help me from my horse. I am ready to see my home again.”

“Of course, my lady.” Brienne is at her side in a moment, easing her from the saddle.

She keeps her grip on Brienne’s gauntlet even once her feet are under her. She doesn’t feel stable quite yet. When she moves, her cloaks part and another gasp goes through the crowd.

“Ah, yes,” Sansa says looking down. “I forgot to mention that I intend to keep a Stark in Winterfell.”

“A baby!” one woman exclaims. She is an elderly servant, Nora, who once attended to Sansa’s rooms. Ramsay had had her killed. But this is a different time, and Sansa will see her protected. “My lady, let us get your rooms ready. You must be exhausted from your travels.”

Sansa’s free hand comes to hold her belly, to ease some of the weight off her back. “I am. Thank you. I know that this isn’t what any of you imagined when you thought of a Stark returning to Winterfell, but I remember you all. You have served my family faithfully all these years, and I ask you to continue doing so. There is chaos in the North, chaos that we will resolve. Winterfell will once again become the stronghold of the North, and we will bring peace to our lands.”

“In bed with Lannisters,” someone in the crowd mutters.

She can feel her men tense behind her, and she forces herself to laugh, lighter than she feels. “How else do you think I got this child in my belly?” she asks.

There are a few scattered laughs throughout the assembled crowd, and she definitely recognizes Bronn’s snort of laughter.

But - power plays will have to wait for another day. Her back is already aching. She needs to lie down. 

“My rooms?” She asks. 

“Of course,” Nora says. “If my lady would come with me. And my lord?”

She’s hesitant when she includes Tyrion, but Sansa dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure he has matters to attend to with his men.”

Nora’s smile is missing teeth and her, “Of course, my lady,” sounds happier than her last statement had.

Sansa, Wynn, and Lady Brienne follow Nora to the chambers Sansa’s parents had shared when they had been Lord and Lady of Winterfell. 

“We are glad of your return,” Nora says as she airs out Sansa’s bed. Another servant is busy getting a fire lit. “The North remembers.”

“So do I,” Sansa promises. “Lady Brienne, now that you know the way to my chambers, might I trouble you to arrange for my things to be brought up?”

“Of course,” Brienne says. She sketches a quick bow and goes to do as she’s told.

Nora spares a glance at Wynn.

“You can speak before her,” Sansa says.

“Should we prepare this room for two?” Nora asks.

Sansa allows herself to smile. “My husband will have his own chambers.”

She can see the wheels turn in Nora’s head as she works through what that means, reworks alliances and allegiances. 

“Nora,” Sansa says, her voice firm, “He is my husband, and it was a matched marriage and we have not yet found love, but I want the opportunity to find love with him, the way my mother and father did.”

Basically, do not kill my husband. 

She can’t be sure that Tyrion will come to no harm here, and it would not be good for her or the North if he did, but this is the best she can do at the moment to protect him. She must find a way to gain the trust of her people without making her husband a sacrifice. It’s a complicated game set up before her, but she has been prepared for this by her time in the capital.

And while she doesn’t trust her husband in her bed, or her heart, she does trust in his deviousness, and his sense of self-preservation. He knows how precarious his position is here, and he will put all his considerable attention to keeping himself out of trouble, which means supporting her completely. Perhaps it will be enough to keep him busy.

“And Nora?” Sansa adds casually, a mere afterthought. “If he uses the privacy of his chambers to invite women into them, I give you my permission to instruct his servants to be less than attentive in their duties.”

“My lady?” Nora asks.

Sansa smiles. “And if they are particularly beautiful women then you have my permission to sheep shift his bed. See how many women want to frequent it when it stinks of dung.”

Nora smiles as well. “Yes, my lady.”

“I wish to retire now,” Sansa says. She presses her hands to her back. “I also wish for this baby to depart my body, but I can only have one of those right now.”

Wynn laughs, used to Sansa’s increasing complaints. “You’ll have a little lord or lady soon.”

“And then I’ll have to begin the process of acquiring another,” Sansa says. She groans. “Nora, when you select chambers for my husband, make sure they are not too far from mine.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Sansa lets Wynn change her into bedclothes, and she climbs into a bed too large for one person. Designed for a couple, she thinks. She pushes the thought away.

Winter is coming. There is now a Stark in Winterfell.

She smiles and pulls her blankets up to ward off the chill of the North.

~*~

The next morning, her spirits high after a sleep in a real bed and a real meal in the dining room of her childhood, Sansa instructs every person at Winterfell to convene at the Great Hall. 

She is not surprised to see the servants huddled on one side of the room, wary of the soldiers that take up the other side. Sansa herself is seated at the high table, Tyrion on her right. Behind them stand Brienne and Bronn, two very different but very capable bodyguards. 

Someone, she will have to ask Nora who, was thoughtful enough to put a cushion on Sansa’s seat to ease the discomfort of sitting.

She tries to find a position where the table doesn’t press uncomfortably against her growing belly, hoping her nervousness isn’t obvious. She only has one chance to make a first impression as a ruler, and she wants to do well. She fretted over what to say the whole, long journey North. She had spent her girlhood dreaming of a fairy tale life in the capital, and resented every time her father put his foot down and insisted she sit her turn in the halls at his side.

She appreciates that insistence now.

She takes a deep breath.

“I will not keep you long,” Sansa says, “because I know you all have duties to attend to, important duties that allow the castle to operate. But yesterday held a lot of excitement, and I would like to say a few things. First, I want you all to look around you.”

She waits until they have obeyed. “The people in this room  _ are _ Winterfell. It is a new Winterfell, yes, but these are new times. Starks and Lannisters have come together,” she touches the pronounced swell of her belly, “and we will be stronger for it.”

“I will hear petitions,” Sansa says. “From any of you. From any of the people of the North. My husband will hear them with me. But I want you to know that this is a place where your voices will be heard, regardless of your petition or your station or the station of those you quarrel with.” She shifts in her seat, the baby moving and making every position uncomfortable. “Are there petitions to be heard today?”

The hall is silent, and Sansa finds she must call on her capital face to keep from showing her disappointment that they don’t trust her. Or her worry that if she can’t bring them together then this will all fall apart. Perhaps she’ll be betrayed just as her brother was, and the Starks will go down in history as the family destroyed by the Lannisters and their own people.

The baby kicks, vicious, like it doesn’t approve of her thoughts. 

“M-my lady?” An older man approaches, his back stooped as he shuffles forward. “I am Geran, if it please you, and I am in charge of overseeing the maintenance of Winterfell.”

“Speak, Geran,” Sansa tells him. “How can we help you?”

“Winterfell has seen abuse at the hands of the Greyjoys and others who seek to take us while we’re weak. We have few builders and even fewer materials, but we need to bolster her defense. Especially with you here now to protect.”

Sansa is glad to help rebuild her home. “How convenient, then, that I have brought with me a company of strong, able-bodied men.”

There are murmurs of discord amongst the Lannister men. Sansa gives them her full attention and a few of them shy away from it.

“Winterfell is your home now,” she tells them. “Do you not wish to protect your home?”

No one dares answer.

Sansa allows herself to smile. “How many men would you like, Geran? We will need some to scout the nearby woods for trouble and others to form hunting parties, but will twenty do?”

Geran falls to his knees before her. “Thank you, my lady.  _ Thank you _ .”

“Rise, Geran,” Sansa says, uncomfortable with the display. “You do not need to thank me for your protection. That is my duty as your lady. My duty as Wardenness of the North. We begin with Winterfell, and when we are well fortified we will begin to spread to the rest of the North. Ser Marvin, pick twenty men to assist with the rebuilding.”

“If I might make a suggestion?” Lord Tyrion says, his voice a surprise to Sansa. She had forgotten he was here.

She nods, making it clear to their audience that she welcomes his counsel.

“Ser Marvin oversaw the rebuilding of King’s Landing after the siege. Perhaps he should be one of the twenty he suggests.”

Ser Marvin, who had been displeased with Sansa’s order, nods in deference to Tyrion’s suggestion. “Of course, my lord. My lady.”

Sansa, relieved that they have overcome their first hurdle, turns back to the room. “Next.”

~*~

Winterfell’s needs are great, and Sansa hardly gets moment’s peace their first days there. She finally gets time for a quiet meal with her husband, but still they are not alone. Podrick and Wynn are serving, and the baby is here, of course. Sansa is in constant discomfort; if it isn’t her feet it’s her back, and if it isn’t her back it’s her stomach. Nothing brings relief, and she is beginning to forget how it feels not to be nauseous and aching.

Nora is here too, poking at a fire that needs no attention. Sansa understands, and she’s sure Tyrion does too, that she’s here searching for answers to report to the others. How close are Sansa and Tyrion? Can Tyrion be trusted? Can Sansa?

Their survival depends on Sansa convincing Nora that they can both be trusted.

“You find your chambers satisfactory?” Sansa asks, bringing her soup spoon to her mouth. She doesn’t invite many to dine with her these days, unwilling to force her companions to share the bland food that’s the only thing she can stomach. 

Even this soup, made from chicken stock and consisting only of broth and softened vegetables, seems too much. Her stomach protests, and she puts the spoon down before she is sick on the table. Again.

She hasn’t touched a lemon cake or any other sweet in what seems like years. How she misses them.

“Yes, thank you,” Tyrion says. 

She has never seen him quite so at a loss for words, as out of control as he is here, in her territory. In some ways, he is now the prisoner in their marriage. She isn’t sure how to feel about that. She resolves not to dwell on it. 

“The repairs are coming along nicely,” Sansa says. 

“They are. Ser Marvin does good work. And our scouting parties return with no news, which is good news. I’m afraid we won’t have peace for long, but we’ll spend the time wisely, fortifying for when that peace breaks.”

“We won’t see too much trouble, will we?” Sansa asks. “I know the Freys betrayed us. And the Boltons. And the Greyjoys, of course. But the other Houses are loyal.”

“The Boltons and Greyjoys are two large enemies to have,” Tyrion answers. “The Freys should, hopefully, leave us be until we are ready to engage them. But the Karstarks will have to be dealt with. My brother killed their heir and your brother killed their lord. They will look on neither of us with kindness.”

“Three major threats,” Sansa says. “We must begin developing a plan. Theon’s treachery will not gain Winterfell for his family. And I will burn the North before I allow the Boltons to step foot in this place.”

“Strong words, my lady.”

Sansa doesn’t try to hide her hate. “I will punish anyone who has betrayed my family. I will return to their hearts a fear of the North. I will -” she gasps, stomach clenching painfully, “I will make the North safe for my family again.”

“My lady?” Tyrion pushes his chair away, rushing to her side.

Sansa can’t hide her grimace, pain wracking her body again. “I -” something wet spills between her legs, and she casts a desperate look at her handmaiden. “Wynn,” she says. “Wynn!”

Wynn sees the stain on her dress and reacts immediately. “Nora, get the midwife to the birthing chamber. Lord Tyrion, fetch Lady Brienne and anyone else you trust to guard your wife while she labors. The baby is coming.”

“The baby,” Tyrion murmurs and Wynn forgets herself enough to give him a shove towards the door. He runs out, Podrick close behind him, and Sansa groans.

“He’d better hurry.”

“The babe won’t come that quick,” Wynn promises. “You will wish it, but it’s a long process, my lady.”

“It has been a long process,” Sansa grits out. “I want it done.”

“Of course, my lady. Now come, it will be good for you to walk a bit.”

~*~

There are no men allowed in the birthing chamber, and Brienne guards the door to keep them out. 

It takes the whole night and most of the next day, but Sansa gives birth to a healthy baby boy. 

She collapses back against the bed as soon as the midwife eases him from her body, and the sheets are cool, damp with sweat. She’s exhausted, her voice hoarse from screaming, and she wants nothing but to sleep for a sennight. 

“My lady,” the midwife says. She holds out Sansa’s son, clean now and wrapped in a blanket. “What will you call him?”

This, Sansa knows. She takes the baby in her arms.

“Eddard.”

~*~

Her recovery sleep is interrupted by the apologetic midwife.

“There are no wet nurses here,” she says, handing a squalling Eddard to his mother.

“But,” Sansa takes the baby but flounders afterwards, “what do I do?”

Even with the two of them helping him, he doesn’t seem to understand that relief is right in front of him. Sansa is on the verge of crying herself when he finally starts suckling, and like everything else child-related, it’s uncomfortable.

First thing she does when she gets out of this bed, she’s finding a wet nurse. Even if she has to go all the way back to King’s Landing to find one.

Eddard occupies all her attention for a time, but they both eventually settle enough that Sansa notices the midwife is politely waiting to be noticed. “There’s something else?”

“My lady, your husband is most concerned about you. He has been pacing outside your chambers without stop. We showed him the baby, but it only assuaged some of his fears.”

Sansa looks to Nora for confirmation. She nods. “The Lady Brienne had to keep him from entering the room several times when your cries grew especially loud. He was worried for both you and the babe.”

Sansa, exhausted but feeling magnanimous with a healthy son in her arms, nods. “Let him in.”

As soon as the door is opened, Tyrion rushes to her side, touching her forehead, her cheek, then her neck, like he must see that the blood still runs through her body in order to be sure that she’s okay. 

“We are both healthy,” Sansa tells Tyrion. “And he, apparently, is quite hungry.”

“Good,” Tyrion says. “Good. My mother -” he cuts himself off. “You are healthy and that’s all that matters.”

“I’ve been told you’ve met little Eddard?” Sansa asks. She didn’t ask him for input on what to name their son. He can name their next child. 

“I’m sure he’ll be worthy of his namesake,” Tyrion says, either choosing not to rise to the challenge or just accepting her right to the naming. “But you - no lingering pain? No fever?” The second question is directed to the midwife.

“She needs rest and food, but she’ll be fine. Your wife is truly of the North. Strong.”

Sansa smiles, glad as Eddard’s suckling begins to slow. “I think his belly is finally full.” She looks over at Tyrion. “Would you like to hold your son? I’m afraid I will not stay awake for much longer.”

“May I?” Tyrion asks cautiously, like he thinks this is a cruel joke.

Sansa eases her child from her breast and hands him over. His mouth continues to move, suckling at the air before it closes on a tiny sigh, his eyes slipping closed. Little Eddard has the right idea, Sansa thinks, letting hers close as well. 

~*~

She is confined to her bed, and Tyrion remains at her side except for when he must sit as Lord and hear petitions. He joins her for every meal, and he makes sure he’s by her side when she falls asleep at night. 

It’s rather...nice.

“Word from King’s Landing,” Tyrion says over lunch, four days after Eddard’s birth. 

“Good news, I hope,” she says. 

“Of course,” Tyrion tells her. “I would ease you into it if it weren’t. You’re still recovering.”

Her husband has been most attentive since the birth, and she’s surprised that he appears to be at least as concerned about her as he is about their son. She hadn’t realized he cared so. 

“You’re not the only one to have given birth to a son,” Tyrion says. “Prince Briar Baratheon was born just a few days before Eddard.”

“Briar?” Sansa asks. She is happy for Margaery, but really.  _ Briar _ .

“It appears so,” Tyrion says. “According to Varys, the King, in the habit of his father, went on a hunt when his wife fell into labor. Since he wasn’t there when the child was birthed, she named him herself. It is a fitting name for a child of Highgarden.”

Sansa is reminded that her husband stayed close to her as she labored, and has been faultlessly attentive since, even when she is tired and sore and grumpy and Eddard refuses to just cooperate and eat. Once again, she is glad she married Tyrion and not Joffrey.

“I didn’t name Eddard because I thought you neglectful,” she says, because it’s important for him to know.

Tyrion smiles at her over their lunch. “I’m glad. And it’s a fitting name. He’ll grow into it, I’m sure.”

“He’s eating enough certainly,” Sansa says. She feels like she spends all her time sleeping or feeding her son. “But I like the sound of it, Lord Eddard of Winterfell.”

She cautions herself against too much hope. She knows the rule of the North. Do not get attached until your baby has survived their first winter. 

They eat in companionable silence, Sansa taking the time to really enjoy her food. The meat is tender and the fruit is sweet, and she eats past being full. The midwife tells her another four weeks to regain her strength and allow her body to fully heal, then she can begin to lie with her husband again. 

One son is good. Two is better. 

~*~

A week after the birth of her son, Sansa attends the Great Hall with her husband. 

A goat herder is their first petition of the day. “Wolves keep running off with my flock, and I have not the skill to fight them off.”

“We can spare one of our guard,” Tyrion says, “In exchange for four of your flock.”

The goat herder hesitates. 

“We will, of course,” Tyrion continues, “give you two of the kids your goats birth for us. We want your flock to prosper as well as the one we’re building here.”

The goat herder bows. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Next,” Tyrion calls.

Sansa sits back in her chair and watches her husband rule. He is better at it than she thought he would be, and clearly he has been doing good work while she’s been gone, because the people trust him with their problems and they trust him to be fair. 

In addition to the goats, he secures promises of chickens from three different farmers in exchange for help building defenses against foxes. He tells her between petitioners that he has already arranged for two cows. 

He may be a Southerner, but he understands about preparing for winter.

Sansa’s heart swells with pride. 

The next petitioner’s approach is interrupted by Eddard’s outraged wails. Nora hurries with him to Sansa’s side. 

“Apologies, my lady, but the little lord is hungry, and he does not want to wait.”

“He is more like Arya than my father,” Sansa says, but she takes the babe and puts him to her breast. 

The petitioner hovers uncertainly.

She rolls her eyes. “I am feeding my son, your future lord. If anyone here has a problem with that then the petitions you have brought here are clearly not as important as you think.”

Tyrion hides a laugh behind his hand. “You may speak,” he tells the man before them.

~*~

Sansa is beginning to feel settled in Winterfell when they get three ravens from the capital.

“This doesn’t bode well,” Tyrion says. “A message from my father, from Varys, and one from Margaery.”

He hands the third message to her. Sansa tears it open, eyes scanning the parchment. Relief washes through her, and she takes a deep breath as she lets it drop to the breakfast table. 

“Joffrey is dead,” she says.

“What?” Tyrion drops his father’s message, which he’s been brooding over, and rips open the one from Lord Varys. His eyes scan the words then work their way up to the top to read them again. “Joffrey is dead.”

“Long live King Briar,” Sansa murmurs. 

She picks Margaery’s note up again. She is distraught at the loss of her beloved husband, fearful for her fatherless boy, and she longs for her dear aunt and friend to return to the capital to personally support her through this trying time. 

“Margaery wants us there for the funeral.”

“Even if we had dragons we couldn’t make it there that fast,” Tyrion says. He’s studying his father’s missive now. “But you will get to see her; my father has summoned us both. If we leave in the next few days, we should arrive in time for young Briar’s coronation.”

“Do they say what happened?” Sansa asks. “Margaery didn’t include any details.” She’s not sure she wants to go to King’s Landing. They just got to Winterfell. Their position here is precarious, and it wouldn’t be good to abandon their people.

“My father is as close-mouthed as ever. Varys only says that there are things he needs to tell me in person, which is ominous.” Tyrion sighs and looks at their assorted scraps of paper. “We just made this trip.”

“I’m not well enough for extended travel on horseback,” Sansa says.

Tyrion rubs his eyes. “If I remember, there’s a river nearby that will take us to the ocean. We could travel to King’s Landing by boat and, if you’re well enough, ride on horseback back to Winterfell.”

“You think it’s safe to leave Winterfell so soon?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Tyrion says. “We’ll leave most of the men, and I’ll have a word with them about the kind of behavior I expect. And this will give us an opportunity to bring more supplies back. A maester, some craftsmen, more livestock. Will Eddard come with us?”

“He still needs me to feed him,” Sansa says. “And he’s too young to be without his mother.”

“Alright,” Tyrion says. “I’ll begin preparations for our trip.” Sensing Sansa’s worry he adds, “Winterfell will wait for us to come back. It waited longer for you the first time.”

Sansa nods, even though she can’t help worrying that the capital will try to trap her again. She has finally come home, and she doesn’t want to risk losing it.

~*~

“Leaving us so soon?” Nora asks, as she banks Sansa’s fire that night. 

“I must,” Sansa says. “I need to see the King’s dead body with my own eyes.”

Nora looks her way, surprised.

“He tormented me my whole time in the capital,” Sansa says. “He beheaded my father. I feel no sadness for his death. We’ll all be safer once he is ensconced in the catacombs.”

“There will be a new king,” Nora says.

“Yes, but his mother is my dear friend. She will raise him well. He’ll be a good king.”

Nora doesn’t seem convinced.

“We will be back,” Sansa promises. “Lord Eddard belongs in Winterfell, not King’s Landing. We’ll leave our men to protect you. I have just gotten Winterfell back, and I will not give it up without a fight.”

Nora smiles as she places one last log on the fire. “She’ll be waiting for you to come back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: References to past, off-screen character death and assault. Non-graphic descriptions of breast-feeding.

Luckily, it is not a far ride to the river, and before long their small party is in the White Harbor and aboard a ship that will take them to King’s Landing. Sansa has brought Brienne, Wynn, and her son. Tyrion has brought Bronn and Podrick. 

No one bothers them, though Sansa does learn that the sea doesn’t agree with her.

“I feel like I’m pregnant all over again,” she says, sipping weakly at her soup broth, the only thing she can keep down.  It’s all she can do to keep her son fed. Fortunately her husband is willing to tend him.

Tyrion has taken to hovering over her again, like that will make her appetite return or keep the rocking of the boat from making her sick.

He holds his hands up when both Brienne and Podrick give him a look. “I have not put another child in her belly. She’s barely off the birthing bed. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“Please tell me it’s not a long journey,” Sansa says.

“We’re on a merchant ship,” Tyrion says bracingly. “They’re built for speed. Also evasion in case of pirates but -”

“Pirates?” Sansa interrupts. “Is that something we have to worry about?”

“It is a short journey,” Brienne says. “And there is no need to worry about pirates.”

“I wish,” Bronn says. “Would make things more exciting. Ships are boring.”

“I would think a man of your practicality would rather be bored than dead,” Sansa says.

Bronn nods his head, acknowledging her point. “And there will be plenty of excitement in the capital.”

Sansa sincerely hopes not. “The realm will have a new king,” she says. “The only excitement will be the celebration.” Perhaps it is time for a distraction. “Brienne, tell us a story. Something from your adventures with Ser Jaime.”

“Did I tell you about the time we dueled on a bridge?” Brienne says.

“You dueled  _ Ser Jaime _ ?” Sansa asks. “One of the best swordsmen in the realm?”

“Yes,” Brienne says. “Everyone is so busy talking about their swords _ men _ they forget about women. Now, we were deciding whether to take the river or the bridge…”

~*~

The capital  _ smells _ . Sansa had gotten used to it, living there so long, but returning after being in the North, after being on the open sea, it’s obvious that King’s Landing is a city. She smells dirt and sewage and thousands of people crammed together. 

Everyone in their party is wearing black today, a show of mourning, and the fabric soaks up the sun’s rays. Sansa is sweating after only a few steps. She misses the biting wind of home.

Ser Jaime meets them at the docks to escort them to the Sept to pay their respects.

“Our sister is beside herself,” Ser Jaime tells Tyrion. “Furious with father that she wasn’t here to protect Joffrey, furious that the Queen wasn’t in his chambers to be killed with him, just… furious. Watch your step; she’s looking for anyone to lash out at.”

“Not here to protect him?” Tyrion asks. “How did our nephew die?”

Ser Jaime looks around the crowded streets and shakes his head. “Not here. We’ll go to the Sept and then the Queen has arranged guest suites for your party.”

“Guest suites?” Tyrion echoes. “A high honor.”

Ser Jaime looks over at Sansa. “Your wife is a close friend of hers.”

“Ah.” Tyrion smiles at his wife and son. “I know this is perhaps a bad time, but would you like to meet your nephew, Eddard?”

“Eddard?” Ser Jaime groans. “The poor boy.”

“It’s a perfectly respectable name,” Sansa says. “I’ve already told Lord Tyrion he can name the next child.”

“How gracious of you,” Ser Jaime says.

“I thought so.”

Both men turn to her and she shrugs, unapologetic. “Would you like to hold him?”

Ser Jaime looks alarmed at the prospect and declines the honor, which is just fine with Sansa. 

“He was so well-behaved on our trip here, took pity on his poor seasick mother. I hope he’ll be able to meet Prince Briar.”

“Another stupid name,” Ser Jaime says. “Joffrey threw a fit when he returned.” He winces. “Well. Anyway. The only person left who doesn’t like the name is Father. King’s Landing loves the Queen and her boy. There are going be be Briars popping up all over the city now.”

“Father kept you apprised of what was happening while you were in Casterly Rock?” Tyrion asks.

“I’m as surprised as you,” Ser Jaime says. “I think he underestimated how bored he’d be without our lives to micromanage. Imagine how bored he’ll be now with a girl Queen and babe King.”

“I have a few puzzles to keep him busy with,” Tyrion says.

“Oh?” Ser Jaime asks.

“Later,” Tyrion says.

~*~

When they reach the Sept, Ser Jaime, Tyrion, and Sansa are let inside. The rest of the party goes to collect their baggage and settle into their rooms. 

Sansa holds her son closer to her as they approach the raised casket. Cersei stands beside it, visibly with child, and obviously grief-stricken. She looks like she took no care with her appearance today, hair a mess, gown dirty, and Sansa has never seen her not put together. Even drunk during the siege she still commanded power, control.

Standing before Sansa is a broken woman.

But Sansa doesn’t doubt for a second that Cersei could, and would, hurt her given the opportunity, and she keeps her distance.

“Come to celebrate?” Cersei sneers, spotting them. She glares at Ser Jaime. “Why did you bring them here?”

“Joffrey was Tyrion’s nephew too,” Ser Jaime says.

“Too?” Cersei scoffs. “Still afraid of the truth,  _ brother _ ?”

“We will not intrude on your vigil long,” Tyrion says, interrupting an argument Sansa doesn’t quite follow. “We simply wish to pay our respects.”

“My  _ vigil _ .” Cersei shakes her head. “My firstborn is  _ dead _ . I wasn’t here when that bitch put a bolt through his heart. I wasn’t here to tear her treacherous body apart. I wasn’t here to protect him, because Father banished me! Banished me! I, who was Queen!”

Cersei is screaming by the end of her rant, and Eddard begins to wail, upset by the sound. 

“Perhaps you could show us to our rooms, brother,” Tyrion says softly. 

Ser Jaime tears his eyes away from Cersei. “Of course.”

Sansa touches her fingers to Joffrey’s casket, but doesn’t insist on seeing the body. She supposes Cersei’s grief is proof enough that Joffrey is truly dead. Besides, swift though their journey was, she doesn’t enjoy sickness so much that she wants to stare at a rotting corpse after her stomach has finally settled.

She can find no sadness for the event within her; just relief. For herself, for Margaery, for their sons, and for the whole realm. 

She follows Ser Jaime and Tyrion to the chambers Queen Margaery gave them. They’re nicer than where either Sansa or Tyrion stayed the last time they were here, but there is one problem.

There’s only one room.

One bed.

Sansa glances at her husband, but he doesn’t seem to realize it yet. Sansa hasn’t shared a bed with him since she announced her pregnancy. 

“A bolt through his heart?” Tyrion asks, as soon as they’re in the room with the door closed. “The King was  _ murdered? _ That didn’t make it into any of the ravens.”

There are trunks that suggest Wynn and Podrick have been through with their things. Sansa sits down next to her trunk but doesn’t move to unpack. They seem to have forgotten she is here, and she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself.

“Right,” Ser Jaime says, “because we were going to broadcast that fact to all corners of the kingdoms.”

“I suppose this is what Varys wanted to tell me in person.” Tyrion sinks into one of the chairs at the meal table. “He was shot?”

“With his own crossbow,” Ser Jaime says. He takes the other seat with a heavy sigh. “Done in by a whore. Who then drank poison before she could be punished for it. She was found with a flower crumpled in her hand, which of course made our sister blame the Tyrells, but the Tyrells wouldn’t hire someone to kill Joffrey and leave her with a  _ rose _ in her hand. They’re just not that stupid.”

“Agreed,” Tyrion says. “And you’re sure it was a whore who killed him?”

“One of Baelish’s. Cersei blames him, too, but he’s in the Eyrie and not even Baelish could order an assassination from there. Not to mention the stupidity factor; he wouldn’t use one of his own girls.”

“Killed by a whore with his own crossbow.” Tyrion laughs. “I’m sure that’s not what we’re telling the people.”

“No. Assassin snuck in and was killed by the Kingsguard, but too late for our unfortunate monarch. The new Lord Commander may lose his position over this.” There’s a vicious satisfaction in his voice for that last detail.

“Of course,” Tyrion murmurs. “You’re sure it was a rose?”

“Stop thinking,” Ser Jaime says. “If Father couldn’t figure it you certainly won’t.”

“What did this whore look like?” Tyrion asks.

Ser Jaime gives his brother a look. “Truly?”

“I gave Joffrey two whores for his name day,” Tyrion says. “I thought whetting one appetite would appease another. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out the way I hoped. He abused them viciously.”

Ser Jaime shrugs. “They’re only whores.”

“You know his tastes,” Tyrion says. “What he did was despicable. Later, one of them was found dead in his chambers; a crossbow bolt was what finally killed her, though she suffered plenty beforehand.”

“Does this have a moral besides your apparent guilt over whores?”

“The dead one was named Ros,” Tyrion says. “Not actually named for the flower, but she had a friend, Daisy, and it was a private joke between them. Daisy was the other girl tortured by Joffrey that day. I would bet a tidy sum that she is also your murderer.”

“Seven hells,” Ser Jaime mutters. “The King of Westeros, killed by one whore in revenge for another.”

Tyrion shrugs. “Merely a theory. But probably not correct, because if Father couldn’t figure out the puzzle, then how would I?”

“I admit I underestimated your knowledge of whores. Does this mean we could pin the whole business on Baelish? Father wants something more concrete than a mysterious assassin to tell the people.”

“Baelish is slippery. I doubt you could put the blame on him for something he  _ did _ do. What about the Targaryen girl? Surely she has mysterious assassins? And a good reason to sow chaos here.”

“We should have dinner with Father,” Ser Jaime says. “He’ll want to hear what you have to say.”

“I very much doubt that, though I see quite a few dinners with Father during my visit here.”

Eddard chooses this moment to make his hunger known, and both men look over at her, startled. Clearly they had forgotten she was here. She meets their eyes squarely, unashamed to be caught eavesdropping. 

“Apologies,” Tyrion says. “You didn’t need to hear that.”

“I’m sure I would’ve learned some of it from the Queen,” Sansa says. 

“Does the Queen know?” Tyrion asks.

“Everything,” Ser Jaime says. “She’s not squeamish, and she was quite insistent. Wanted to make sure she and her son were safe. If you’re right, there should be no more attacks. A small blessing.”

“I assume Lady Olenna and Ser Loras came with our sister?”

“Not with her, but they are here as well. Cersei worked some sort of witchcraft to get herself here as fast as she did. She was here before I was, and I rode with minimal stops. The Tyrells have banded together in this. They’re never without each other. Cersei hasn’t left the Sept. Father might drag her out by her hair if she doesn’t leave on her own soon; the body has to be put in the catacombs.”

“Will she return to Highgarden when this is over? Will she leave Tommen?”

“I don’t know,” Ser Jaime admits, honest. “I do know that Father is looking for somewhere to send Tommen the way he’s sent us away, and it’s best if Cersei is far away when he does that.”

“It’s a wonder our Father has lived as long as he has playing the games he does,” Tyrion says. 

“Strength of the lion,” Ser Jaime says. “I should let you unpack and settle in. Make room in your schedule to see me tomorrow.”

“Have you missed me, brother?” Tyrion asks, somehow managing to be both teasing and sincere.

“You don’t understand how boring Casterly Rock is.”

Tyrion smiles and Ser Jaime takes his leave, letting Podrick in with the dinner tray. “Hungry?” he asks.

“Famished,” Tyrion says.

Wynn comes in to take Eddard, who is finally done eating, and Sansa and Tyrion sit down to their first private meal in… months. 

“One room,” Tyrion says, proving that he isn’t nearly as ignorant of the situation as Sansa had thought.

“Indeed.” 

“There is a recliner,” Tyrion offers. “And I am blessed with the height to fit comfortably on it.”

Sansa is tempted, but she doesn’t quite fit with their recent spirit of cooperation. Tyrion has been a staunch ally in governing Winterfell, endlessly patient with Eddard, and considerate and attentive to her. 

It is one thing for him to have his own, well-appointed chambers in Winterfell, and quite another for a wife to banish her doting husband to the couch over what is really only minimal discomfort.

“We are married,” Sansa says. “And it is a big bed.” She catches his eye. “But only to sleep.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says. “And if you ever change your mind, I will, of course, respect that.”

It is strange to share a bed with another person again, and being in King’s Landing brings up unpleasant memories, but it was a long journey, and Sansa manages to find sleep. 

~*~

Sansa breaks fast with her husband and then they part ways for the day, Tyrion to spend time with Lord Varys and Ser Jaime, and Sansa to see Margaery. 

The Queen is in her chambers with her son. He has his father’s blond hair, but his mother’s kind eyes. Hopefully he will also inherit her disposition.

Sansa coos over the babe and lets her son be cooed over in return. She spends a moment wishing this could be her future, raising her child side by side with a friend.

But the North needs her, and she will find friends there even if they are never as close as she and Margaery. 

“Two husbands dead,” Margaery says, settling into her chair, Briar on her lap. “Two  _ kings _ dead. Am I cursed?”

“If you were cursed, the gods wouldn’t have given you Briar,” Sansa says. And saved you from Joffrey, she thinks privately. But some things cannot be said even to a very dear friend.

“Sometimes, I prayed for something like this to happen,” Margaery says, with her usual regard for propriety. “You warned me of his cruelty, but I thought I could weather it, direct it maybe. When I realized I couldn’t...I was so scared when my grandmother left. I thought she was abandoning me here. And when I heard the news that Joffrey was dead all I could think was ‘thank the Seven, my prayers have been answered’.”

“You and your son are safe,” Sansa says, “You shouldn’t feel any guilt. And I cannot speak to what happened to Renly, but Joffrey was killed by his own cruelty. If he didn’t spread harm the way he did, others would not have sought to harm him in turn. Which is why you have nothing to worry about. You inspire love everywhere you go.”

“Not  _ everywhere _ ,” Margaery says, but her mood does seem lighter. “The former queen, my mother by law, seems quite convinced I had a hand in Joffrey’s death. All because of a flower found in the killer’s hand. I may have feared my husband, but I never would’ve killed him.”

“I believe you,” Sansa says. She wonders if she should share Tyrion’s theory about the two whores, but decides it’s best to hold onto that information for now. Her husband will be less likely to speak freely in her presence if he thinks she’ll carry tales. “I’m glad I was out of the city or I’m sure the blame would’ve found its way to me.”

“Oh, Cersei has some theories on how it was your and Tyrion’s doing as well,” Margaery says. “She has a lot of theories. Fortunately, no one assigns much weight to them or half the city would be in the prisons. But, as much as we had our disagreements, I can understand her grief. If anything happened to Briar…” Margaery’s entire face hardens. “I would see justice done.”

“And the killer’s suicide kept that justice from her,” Sansa says. She can understand Cersei’s grief to some extent, but that doesn’t mean she wants to be within striking distance of it. She wants to conclude their business here and return home. 

~*~

Sansa tries not to be too envious of Margaery’s entourage. Oh, she doesn’t need a flock of handmaidens, or scheming courtiers, or interfering maesters--okay, the only thing she really wants is a wet nurse.

She loves her son, even if she feels guilty about it sometimes. It’s alright for her husband to dote on their son; he’s Southerner, and men lose their minds over their firstborn sons anyway. But Northern women know not to get attached until the child has survived their first winter.

With all that Eddard represents to her, freedom, a revival of her father’s name, a secure Stark future in Winterfell, it’s no wonder that she has trouble keeping perspective. Sometimes she wakes in the night and has to reassure herself that he is real, and alive.

So she loves her son dearly, but that doesn’t mean she enjoys all the minutiae of caring for a newborn. Some of the older women who Theon couldn’t be bothered to torment too badly have been very helpful, swaddling and changing and rocking little Eddard to sleep--when Tyrion can be convinced to give him up--but she just wishes she could hand off her feeding duties as easily. She’d been under the impression that it came naturally, but either that was one of life’s polite lies to keep women from refusing to bear children, or she’s doing something wrong. 

“A wet nurse,” she says.

Her husband gives her an odd look.

“Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts,” she says. “What were you saying?”

“My father wants to see us,” he says.

“Oh.” She starts to hand the baby to Wynn, then pauses. She thinks about how Tyrion had worried during Eddard’s birth, even though Sansa wasn’t there to see it. She thinks about how he’s fully embraced the opportunity to show off his own cleverness in support of Winterfell. She thinks about how he seems to genuinely care for his son. “Should I bring Eddard?”

“Sorry?”

“Would Lord Tywin be more or less inclined to be helpful if I bring his grandson to this meeting?”

Tyrion is startled, but soon gives her a lopsided smile. It might be the most sincere smile he’s ever directed at her. “More. It would make his Northern legacy tangible.”

“And there’s no danger?”

He does her the courtesy of seriously considering her question. “Cersei almost certainly won’t be there. Jaime tells me that she hasn’t left the… the body… since she arrived. I can’t promise my father won’t say something cruel, but the baby won’t understand it.”

It’s good enough.

Sansa leaves one of Eddard’s blankets in their room--she hasn’t broken the habit of dressing him for the North--and allows her husband to take her arm.

They make their way to the Office of the Hand, where Sansa first met Lord Tywin.

It could be meant as an insult to her, a reminder of when her father held this position, but she doesn’t think so. Joffrey was cruel enough, though not subtle enough, for such a message. She suspects that Lord Tywin wants to hear the news from the North before the rest of the Small Council does, and that it never occurred to him to consider her feelings.

It doesn’t matter. He has been an ally, of sorts, so long as she continues to do what he wants, and that alliance began in this room.

He is seated at his desk, which is covered in parchment, but sets his quill aside when they enter.

He is also alone.

“Father,” Tyrion says.

He gives a sort of grudging nod.

Since this is what passes for civility between these two, Sansa is feeling tentatively optimistic about this meeting. She and Tyrion both have lists of things they need from King’s Landing, and not a lot of money if they can’t tap into the Lannister coffers.

“Jaime was supposed to be here, but he’s fretting about Cersei’s appalling behavior,” he says. “He wasn’t completely incompetent managing Casterly Rock, but I swear his brains leak out his ears every time they’re in the same room.”

Sansa blinks.

“Perhaps that’s why he was so slow as a child.”

“We have secured Winterfell,” Tyrion says, obviously choosing to just ignore that. “I’ve prepared a more complete assessment to supplement the ravens I sent you.”

“And I’ve brought you your grandson,” Sansa adds. 

Lord Tywin allows himself to be diverted, and a protesting Eddard is unwrapped and presented for his inspection.

And an inspection it is. Her poor little son is examined from his fuzzy head to his fat belly to his tiny toes. The man is probably counting them.

It’s a reminder that, while Lord Tywin is an ally, he is not a friend. Sansa isn’t sure she had really appreciated that distinction until she sees the clinical way he looks at her son. She went about his conception singlemindedly focused on her goal of personal safety and security for the North, but that isn’t all her son is to her.

Nor is it all her husband is to her.

Tyrion is surprised when he catches her staring at him, but now is not the time to share her revelation.

“A fine boy,” Lord Tywin pronounces, and she is careful to keep her relief on the inside.

“Thank you, my lord father,” she says, reclaiming her son.

“How is he called?”

“Eddard, my lord,”

“Hmph.” He weighs the name carefully in his mind. “Better than Briar, I suppose.”

As he had refrained from making any disparaging remarks about her father, she heroically refrains from taking (obvious, verbal) offense at this thinly veiled insult. She smiles and curtsies, then steps to the side.

She leaves the chair directly across from Lord Tywin’s for her husband, and discreetly settles herself to one side while she soothes the baby. She trusts Tyrion to represent Winterfell’s interests.

And if he doesn’t, out of sight doesn’t mean out of hearing, and she can always give Eddard a (gentle!) poke to interrupt the proceedings. 

She needn’t have worried. Tyrion efficiently summarizes the state of Winterfell when they found it, what steps they’ve taken to improve it, and what they need. He has lists, and maps, and written testimony from the senior servants.

Sansa is reluctantly impressed. They had briefly and somewhat tersely discussed what they were going to tell Lord Tywin (which was everything, neither of them were so stupid as to think he didn’t have spies), but Tyrion is obviously taking his responsibility as (co-)Warden of the North seriously.

He does fail to mention the wet nurse, though.

Eventually the report has wound down and all of the paperwork has been examined, and she can see him gearing up for negotiating for their needs. She is familiar with his bargaining face.

Lord Tywin raises a hand. “I’ve read your list of requests. You shall have everything.”

Sansa blinks. That… was a lot less fight than she was expecting.

Tyrion is making a mostly unsuccessful attempt not to gape.

“How much do you know about what is going on in the North?” Lord Tywin asks.

“Very little,” Sansa says. “The information network has almost completely broken down, and the families previously sworn to Winterfell are biding their time and have not yet visited us.”

“Not surprising. They want to see if you can hold the Keep before they act.”

Sansa’s chin comes up. “We will hold it.”

“You haven’t asked for any military support beyond a new man-at-arms. However, the men I send to escort the supply wagons and livestock will be yours to keep. You will not have an easy time uniting the North.”

Sansa stands so she can see the map he spreads out over his desk.

“The former Stark bannermen are still scattered. Several of them lost lords or heirs in the fighting, and there has been more wildling activity than in any living man’s memory. They won’t have had time yet to protest your claiming Winterfell, but they will.”

Wildlings on this side of the Wall? If the wildlings are overwhelming the Night’s Watch, how bad is the situation there? Sansa reminds herself that she really needs to write Jon once things settle a bit.

“The confusion has given rise to two major threats: the Boltons and the Greyjoys.”

Sansa ruthlessly suppresses her reaction to the names, though Eddard huffs when she holds him a bit too tight. Of course those two are creating problems.

“The Greyjoys are gathering their ships for war. They are relatively contained, for the moment, by a schism in the leadership. Lord Greyjoy wants to claim coastal land while everyone else is distracted, and his daughter wants to lead a group to hunt down his missing heir. There’s no way to know how long they’ll keep each other busy, but she is apparently strong-willed and, in the fashion of their people, his heir now that the boy is missing.”

“The more immediate issue is the Boltons. When you last left King’s Landing, our intelligence had them amassing an army to claim Winterfell. It was why you brought such a large force initially. But I’ve recently learned that they decided to go after an easier target, and are marching on the Vale.”

Sansa can’t conceal her shock this time, but at least she can pass it off as concern for her family. The Boltons going after the Eyrie? That didn’t happen last time!

And as much as she dislikes her aunt and cousin, she wouldn’t wish Ramsay on anyone.

Well, maybe Lord Baelish.

“How can we help?” Tyrion asks, giving Sansa a moment to compose herself.

“Nothing,” Lord Tywin says. “Go back to Winterfell as quickly as you can. Make it fast. Get the rest of the Northern families on your side before the Greyjoys decide to attack.”

“And the Boltons?” Sansa asks.

“I will deal with the Boltons. The Vale is traditionally a close ally of the Crown, and right on one of the main ship routes. I have full authority to take… direct action.”

Sansa doesn’t have an army or the inclination to lead one, but she won’t rest easy until she knows the Boltons have been contained.

She walks out of the meeting with everything she wanted, but an unsettled heart.

~*~

Briar’s coronation is anticlimactic after the revelation-filled days preceding it. Sansa is still unsettled, and can only manage a small smile at the confused infant wailing as the heavy crown, almost as big as he is, is ceremonially placed around his head.

Cersei does not attend at all.

She hears from Lord Varys later that Cersei had to be held down while they finally took Joffrey’s body to the crypts, and she later tied herself to a statue so she could stay by it.

A tight-lipped Lord Tywin declined to make even more of a scene on such an important day and resolved to deal with his wayward daughter later.

Sansa, for all she does not like her, does not envy Cersei.

Ser Jaime did attend, and the assembled politely pretended not to notice that he was frog-marched in by Brienne almost five minutes late.

The coronation feast is a low-key affair, especially compared to Joffrey’s wedding. Margaery is full of plans for parades and processionals to let the people know their monarch, as if the whole city isn’t in love with her already.

Sansa is seated too far away to talk to her friend. She appreciated it while Joffrey was king, but she wishes she had someone to talk to. Bronn is being even more crass and irritating than usual, and Tyrion is obviously preoccupied by something.

She has to settle for watching the lords and ladies interact and practicing her observational skills.

Lord Tywin is glaring at Ser Loras, who has shifted his chair in an effort to make it less obvious that he is occupying two seats. No mystery there. She does give Ser Loras a sympathetic smile which he, picking at his food, doesn’t notice.

Queen Margaery is holding court with the members of the Small Council. She has decided to be a proactive Queen Regent, and wants to give the Council the recognition they deserve for their hard work. Right now she is smiling and laughing with the handsome young prince from Dorne--Sansa isn’t sure of his name. She suspects Lord Tywin and Queen Margaery will have some very interesting discussions in the future.

Ser Jaime hasn’t touched his food. He manages a half-smile when his niece speaks to him, but spends the rest of the meal staring broodily into space. Sansa almost hadn’t recognized the Princess Myrcella, visiting from Dorne for the coronation. Her dining companion must be her intended, the heir to the throne of Dorne. He seems quite infatuated with her. It makes Sansa smile.

“I’m worried about Jaime,” Tyrion says, out of nowhere.

“He does seem out of sorts,” Sansa says neutrally. She still doesn’t really like Ser Jaime, but he sort of grows on you, like an ugly tapestry that becomes so much a part of a room you can’t be bothered to get rid of it.

“He’s quite upset that Cersei is so upset.”

Sansa likes Cersei even less. But she would hate if Tyrion started saying nasty things about her siblings--which she suddenly realizes that he hasn’t, ever, not even about Robb--so she hmms and doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t really care about that, though.”

She really doesn’t, and she doesn’t feel bad about it, either. But she does care about Tyrion, even if she hasn’t quite decided how much. “I suppose I could have a word with Brienne.”

He seems comforted by that, or at least drops the subject, and the rest of dinner is quiet.

She forgets about her promise until early evening, when Tyrion tells her that he is taking his brother out drinking and not to expect him back until morning.

There’s an awkward moment where they both wait to see if she’s going to tell him that she doesn’t trust him to be gone all night, especially in King’s Landing, but the moment passes and they part ways.

The mention of Ser Jaime reminds her of her intention to seek out Brienne, so she does.

Wynn and Brienne are sharing a small room close to Sansa and Tyrion’s. Too small for two people, really, but it was share with Wynn or share with Bronn, and this way was less likely to lead to bloodshed. Brienne isn’t there, but Wynn has a few suggestions.

Sansa finds her in the second place she tries, an artificially flat stretch of land right next to the ocean.

Brienne has managed to lose her finery somewhere and is back in her usual, practical clothes, training with her sword.

“My lady,” she says when she sees Sansa.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s starting to get dark, anyway.”

“Walk back with me?”

“Of course. One moment, my lady.”

Brienne moves with a grace and fluidity that seems entirely at odds with her height and the broadness of her shoulders. Not that Sansa is going to tell her that, because she can’t think of a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound rude.

“I took Jaime here once,” Brienne says, as they begin to walk.

Sansa’s eyes widen.

“No! Not… like that.” Brienne blushes over every inch of her visible skin.

She looks so incredibly uncomfortable that Sansa can’t even laugh at her. Though it’s tempting. Even if it’s Ser Jaime. “I believe you.”

“After we returned to King’s Landing, he was quite distraught over the loss of his hand. He was sure he would never fight again.” She rolls her eyes. “I told him he should have been a bard. Always spinning a tale of what a tragedy everything was, bemoaning his ill-treatment. I could tell him a tale or two!”

Sansa smiles. At first Brienne’s bluntness had unnerved her, not to mention her determination to bring up Sansa’s mother at the most awkward moments, but the woman has really grown on her. She is always sincere and puts her full effort into achieving her goals.

“So I dragged him out here to knock some sense into him. With a sword.” Brienne smiles at the memory. She isn’t pretty, and a smile can’t change that, but it’s still a lovely smile. “Been waiting the whole trip to do that. By the end of the lesson he’d learned not to drop his sword.”

“And?” Sansa could listen to embarrassing stories about Ser Jaime all day.

“And he decided I was ‘too mean’ and he got Bronn to train him instead.” Brienne huffs. “Lazy.”

She sounds almost fond of him. Sansa can’t understand it.

“I’m worried about him.”

On the one hand, apparently everyone except Sansa is obsessed with Ser Jaime’s well-being. Everyone except Cersei and Lord Tywin. And now Sansa does feel bad; not for Ser Jaime, but because she doesn’t feel bad. At least she doesn’t have to think of a way to broach the topic. “My husband said that he is not dealing well with… things.”

“He’s moody and combative.”

“More so than usual?” Sansa asks, before she can censor herself.

Brienne just laughs. “There’s no change in the frequency of his whining, it’s just a… different quality. It’s like… do you recall telling me that Lord Eddard has a different cry for hungry, tired, messy?”

Sansa does recall that, because she had needed to open her dress to feed Eddard and given him to Brienne to hold, just for a moment, and Brienne had panicked and almost dropped him. Once the baby was safely in her arms again, it was hilarious.

“It’s basically the same thing.”

It suits Sansa’s worldview just fine to equate Ser Jaime to a squalling infant, and she cherishes the thought.

By this time they are nearly back to Sansa’s rooms.

“You really care about him,” Sansa says, because while she has technically spoken with Brienne, this isn’t really in the helpful spirit her husband probably meant.

Brienne eyes her warily. “I have no desire to be his lady.”

“I understand,” Sansa says, keeping her amusement contained with effort.

Brienne relaxes when she doesn’t push the romance angle. “He’s annoying,” she says. “And self-centered and overdramatic. But… he tries. Sometimes. There’s something there. Deep, deep down.”

It’s interesting how Brienne seems to understand perfectly well who Ser Jaime is, but she likes him anyway. Sansa couldn’t do it.

“He just needs a good kick in the-” Brienne stops, looks at Sansa “-pants.”

They stop in front of Sansa’s door.

“Now that he’s Lord of Casterly Rock he doesn’t have anyone to tell him he’s being an idiot,” Brienne finishes mournfully. She sounds like she genuinely regrets this.

Sansa pictures Brienne and Ser Jaime interacting. It’s a good picture.

Here is a woman who could make him miserable for the rest of his days, and Sansa can tell herself that it’s for his own good. It might even be the truth.

“I’ve had an idea,” Sansa says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: References to past attempted rape (when Joffrey's party is attacked by the mob and Sansa is separated from the others)

They leave the day after Briar’s crowning, leaving Brienne with Ser Jaime but adding a wet nurse to their company.  

Following their group, at a more sedate pace, is the promised company of men with provisions, a new maester, a man-at-arms, and several other personnel required to make Winterfell a functional keep. 

The journey seems to stretch on forever, but they finally, finally reach Winterfell again.

“Construction has come along nicely,” Tyrion notes as they ride up. 

Indeed, the towers have been fixed, standing tall and proud, ready to act as lookout for any danger that comes their way. The ramparts have been repaired as well in case they need to line archers up to shoot at an oncoming enemy.

Sansa understands the importance of being prepared, but she hopes she never lives through another siege. 

“Welcome home,” Nora greets, part of the crew to meet them at the gate. 

Sansa gratefully hands her son over. “Thank you, it’s good to be back. Any problems while we were away?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Nora says, “but we’re glad to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home,” Sansa says. 

“There is one thing,” Geran ventures.

Ser Marvin scoffs and Sansa wonders if there’s been a problem with the rebuilding.

“What is it?” Sansa asks.

“Just through the gate and already back to work,” Bronn mutters. “And you wonder why I like the capital better.”

Sansa ignores him and steps closer to Geran, until she and her furs fill his entire vision. “Speak,” she tells him. “I’m listening.”

“There’s a boy here. Been waitin’ for your return. One of Cailin’s boys. He says he’s got a message for the Lady Sansa and the Lady Sansa alone.”

“He’s yanking your chain,” Ser Marvin says, “and the old man’s letting him. What starving brat wouldn’t be happy to sit amongst his betters and eat his fill?”

Sansa touches her hand briefly to Geran’s shoulder to let him know she’s on his side. “I will speak to the boy. Where is he?”

“He’s been helping me in the stables,” Hullen says, coming forward. “We’re feeding him, aye, but he’s working for it. I can bring you to him.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says.

She and Tyrion follow Hullen to the stables, with Podrick and Bronn accompanying them. The boy is small and dark-haired, and he reminds her of Bran the last time she saw him. He’s crouched down in one of the stalls, grinning at something Sansa can’t see.

“Boy,” Hullen barks. 

The kid scrambles to his feet, and when he moves, Sansa can see the cat stretched out across the straw, five kittens all fighting to feed. “Ser,” the boy says. 

Hullen sighs. “This is your lord and lady, lad. Greet them, too.”

The boy tries to bow and almost falls on his face, and he stutters over the proper address, clearly not used to seeing anyone higher born than the occasional knight passing through his family’s land.

“I’m Lady Sansa,” Sansa tells him, crouching in the straw so she can be eye level with him. “My family has lived here a long time. I’m told you have a message for me.”

The boy nods his head. “A big man came to our farm. Scary. Father thought he might be a raider. He demanded food for him and the boy -” he flushes - “ _ girl _ he had with ‘im. She yelled at the big guy for trying to scare us. Even had a little sword she poked at his armor with.” His smile fades. “He didn’t really listen to her. He was still scary.”

“You’ve come to ask for help against this man?” Sansa asks. “You could’ve asked for help before I returned.”

The boy shakes his head. “The man sent me here. He said he’s got somethin’ important to you, and he’ll make a trade if you’ve got enough money.”

“Something important to me?” Sansa asks. What could a strange bully of a knight have that’s important to her?

“What did this man look like?” Tyrion asks, approaching as well.

“Big,” the boy says. “Bigger than any man I’ve ever seen.”

Tyrion nods. “His face. What did his face look like?”

The boy shook his head, eyes wide. “I didn’t stare. He didn’t like it if I stared.”

Sansa’s startled when her husband’s hand clasps hers. “Sansa, I believe there’s been a sighting of the Hound in our land.”

Behind them, Bronn whistles. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get fun around here.”

“The Hound?” Sansa asks. “What’s he doing this far North? And what could he have that I want?”

“I think it’s the girl,” the boy pipes up. “She got real mad when he told her they had to stay at the farm until you got back from wherever you went. He tried to say he was her father, but won’t nobody believe that. No girl threatens her father with a sword and escapes a beatin’.” The boy drops his eyes. “Begging your pardon, lady.”

“A girl with a sword?” Sansa asks. She feels faint. “A girl with a sword and an attitude. A young girl, do you think?”

The boy nods, oblivious to Sansa’s distress. “She wanted to come with me to Winterfell, but the big man laughed, said he’d tie her to the horse post if he had to. Said he dragged her all the way out here, and he was going to get his money.”

Sansa’s hand grips her husband’s, hard. “Arya,” she breathes. She doesn’t dare hope, but - “It’s Arya. The Hound has my sister!” She gets to her feet. She needs to ride out to this farm. No, the Hound might spook and run. She needs to send him gold. She needs to call him here. She -

Tyrion stands with her, their hands still joined. “My lady,” he says. “Let me handle this. I promise you, you will get your sister back. But the Hound is not a man to treat lightly.”

Sansa hesitates. She knows she is not the best person to negotiate, but she doesn’t trust anyone else to get her sister back. Now that she knows Arya’s alive, she will rally the full power of the North to get her back. She -

Tyrion squeezes her hand. “I can do this,” he vows. “If I can spend a lifetime negotiating with my father and brother and sister then I can manage this.”

It’s a fair point. She trusted him in King’s Landing; she can trust him now. “I trust you,” she says. “Bring my sister home.”

Tyrion nods, serious, and releases her hand so he can approach the boy again. “How far a ride is your farm?”

“Not far.”

“This is what we’ll do,” Tyrion says. “I’m going to compose a message while you go to the kitchens for a warm meal. When you’re finished, you’re going to deliver the message I give you to the big man at your farm. When he comes to Winterfell, you come with him, and I will pay you and your father for the trouble you’ve been through. I would pay you now, but I fear the Hound would discover the coin and keep it for himself.”

The boy nods like this makes sense from what he’s seen of the man. “Might I ask one thing, ser?”

Hullen sucks in a breath. “It’s ‘m’lord,” he says.

The boy huffs. “One thing,  _ m’lord _ ?”

Sansa can see the smile in her husband’s eyes when he says, “What would you like?”

The boy points to the litter of kittens. “When I come back can I bring one of the little ones home? They should be old enough by then, and we’ve got mice trying to eat our plantin’ seed.”

“You can have two,” Tyrion tells him and ruffles his hair. “Now, I believe you have a very important meal to go eat.”

The boy jumps to his feet and bounds out of the stables, the promise of a hot meal and two kittens enough to lift his mood. 

Sansa feels like skipping as well.

Her sister is coming home.

~*~

Two days after they send the boy back to his farm, two days of constant worry on Sansa’s part, two days of wondering  _ when _ , the Hound arrives at the gates of Winterfell.

Sansa and Tyrion are in the Great Hall, but she hears the commotion in the courtyard. Moments later, the double doors burst open and the Hound strides through, Ser Marvin hurrying to get in front of him.

“We have an intruder,” Ser Marvin says.

The Hound laughs, but Sansa can’t focus on him, because at his side, in boy’s clothes with her hair cut short, is Sansa’s sister. She’s out of her chair before she knows what she’s doing, and she strides past Ser Marvin and bends down to wrap Arya up in her arms and  _ hold _ her. 

“Arya,” she says, tears in her eyes that she makes no move to hide. “You’re safe. You’ve come home.”

She pulls back enough to see her sister’s face, and she recognizes that scowl, has to laugh because this is truly her sister. They haven’t seen each other for months, Sansa thought she was dead, and Arya’s annoyed because Sansa’s being too affectionate. 

But then Arya throws her arms around Sansa’s neck like maybe she’d missed Sansa too.

Ser Marvin’s sputtering breaks up their reunion. “This man is a traitor to the Crown! He turned tail and ran at the Battle of the Blackwater!”

“The Hound left the capital at my behest,” Tyrion says and Sansa looks up at the table where her husband is still seated. This is news to her. “I heard a rumor that the youngest Stark girl might yet live, and I sent him to find her. Who better to track down a missing child than a hound?”

The Hound doesn’t look amused, but there are a few murmurs of laughter throughout the chamber.

Ser Marvin is not convinced. “He said ‘fuck the king’ when he left!”

Here, Tyrion shrugs. “I believe many at King’s Landing had the same thought towards our late king.”

There is outright laughter now.

“But,” Tyrion says, growing serious, “I understand your concern, Ser Marvin. ‘A man with no allegiance is a dangerous man.’”

The Hound takes a step towards Sansa and Arya, like he’s going to grab them and use them as hostages if things go south.

Tyrion remains calm. “You protected my wife, Sansa, while you were in the capital and, at my request, you found and protected her sister Arya until she could be brought here. Will you leave behind you the name of Hound, and swear your allegiance before these witnesses to my Lady Sansa and to Winterfell?”

He hovers, the whole gathering seems to hold its breath, but finally, finally, he drops to one knee. “I so swear,” he says.

“Then rise, Ser Sandor Clegane, Knight of Winterfell.”

His scarred face goes through the most horrible contortions, and for a moment Sansa thinks this isn’t going to work, that the courtyard is about to explode into violence.

Arya, inexplicably, is snickering, though quietly enough that only Sansa can hear.

But he stands, slowly, still with that fearsome expression, and growls something that might generously be called the ritual acceptance of the honor.

Tyrion looks very pleased with himself, and the Hound--Ser Sandor, now--can’t seem to stand it, because he looks at Sansa instead.

She meets his gaze evenly. There was a time she was afraid of him, and she still is afraid of what he can do, but she knows that he won’t ever hurt her. He protected her from Joffrey the best he could, protected her from herself when she tried to push Joffrey off the wall. He saved her in that stable, and he even tried to rescue her from the capital.

She knows he is not a good man, and she doesn’t quite understand why he’s so infuriated at this great honor, but she thinks they might need some bad men on their side with the upcoming fights for the North.

“A protector of Winterfell,” Sansa says. “We are honored to welcome you and your service.”

“Horse shit,” Arya says, startling the room. “He doesn’t care about anything but getting paid.”

“As a protector of Winterfell, he will of course be compensated,” Tyrion says, and Sansa swears she sees the corners of his mouth twitch, amused at Arya’s language. 

“He -” 

Sansa claps a hand over her sister’s mouth before she can say anything else. She doesn’t know what her sister knows, but she suspects that Tyrion is spinning one of his clever stories, that Ser Sandor’s mission to find Arya was less honorable than Tyrion’s painting it to be. If Arya contradicts him, blood might be shed in Winterfell, and that, Sansa cannot allow.

“No,” Sansa says firmly, when Arya struggles against her hand. “Your time away from home has given you a filthy mouth. Until you can talk like a lady again, you will not speak.”

Arya breaks free and bolts, but Sansa waves off the guards who move to chase her. Her sister is angry, and she is stubborn, and Sansa knows exactly where she’s fleeing to. It’s a problem to address once they’ve dealt with Ser Sandor.

“Podrick,” Tyrion says. “Find a suitable chamber for Ser Sandor. He is a guest of Winterfell now and will be treated as such.”

Sansa thinks the last bit was directed at Ser Marvin, because the man’s expression sours, but he doesn't say anything. 

Podrick is leading Ser Sandor from the room when the farmer’s boy darts in. 

“I’m back,” he says.

“So you are.” Tyrion smiles warmly and produces a pouch from his pocket. He tosses it to the boy. “For you and your father. And you may go to the stables and choose your kittens. Thank you for what you’ve done for my lady and her sister.”

The boy grins and sprints out, and Sansa realizes she’s still standing in the middle of the hall.

“A break is in order, I think,” Tyrion says, rising from his chair. “My lady, you should have a proper reunion with your sister, and I should very much like to meet this young lady I’ve heard so much about.”

“Young,” Sansa agrees, taking her husband’s arm, “not sure how much lady is left in her.”

“An extensive journey with the Hound--excuse me, Ser Sandor--will do that to a person.” They walk out of the room and Tyrion lowers his voice. “Do you know where she went?”

Sansa nods. “But I’m not sure if she’s fit for company.”

“There is something we must discuss with her right away,” Tyrion says. “Would you lead me to her?”

Sansa leads them to her father’s study, a room she’s left closed up since their return. Too many painful memories locked inside. She drops her husband’s arm to pull her cloak tighter around herself, because with no fire in the hearth and the room has a chill.

It’s also dark, and Sansa and her husband each take a lantern and begin lighting the candles in the room.

To all appearances the room is empty, unused, but Sansa points at the large wooden desk and the fingers that are visible in the crack between the desk and the floor.

“Arya was very close with our father,” Sansa says. “The closest of all of us. He didn’t get cross with her less than ladylike pursuits.”

There is no movement from beneath the desk.

Sansa looks over at Tyrion, because this is his show. Arya’s temper is legendary, and Sansa isn’t counting on getting her happy reunion anytime soon. She supposes she should be grateful Arya didn’t run away. 

“Arya, we know you’re here,” Tyrion says. “And we need to speak to you. Come out, please.”

There’s a long, drawn out silence, and Sansa’s afraid her sister won’t obey, but then her head pops up. She walks around the desk to face them, a small sword clipped to her belt. Sansa wonders if they have to worry for their safety.

“You didn’t send the Hound for me,” Arya sneers. “I was on my way to the Wall, and a bunch of things happened, then he kidnapped me for ransom. It wasn’t you. Why? Because he didn’t bring me to you right away. He wanted to take me to Robb and my mother, but,” Arya falters before her face hardens, “we got there the night of the slaughter. I wanted to kill everyone there but he dragged me away. He was going to take me to Aunt Lysa in the Vale, but we were on the way there when he heard Sansa was going back to Winterfell. He said she’d give him more money than Aunt Lysa. You lied. You’re a  _ liar _ .”

Arya says it like it’s the worst thing a person can be.

“I am,” Tyrion says, fully admitting to the charge. “When the farm boy made his report to us and I realized Ser Sandor had you and wanted to ransom you, I knew we were in danger.”

Sansa looks over, surprised. She’d known Arya was in danger, but not that the rest of them were.

“He did abandon King’s Landing during the siege, and he was quite vocal in his disapproval of King Joffrey. There is a price on his head for it. And here I was asking him to come to Winterfell, sworn to the Crown and flying Lannister banners. Every man here wants him dead. You traveled with him for some time. Is he a stupid man?”

Angry, sullen, Arya shakes her head mutely.

“No,” Tyrion says. “He is not. He knew coming here could be a death sentence, and I knew if he brought you and violence erupted he would either run off with you again or kill you.”

Sansa flinches. 

Arya doesn’t.

“So you lied,” Arya says.

“Yes,” Tyrion says. “I lied. And now, you must as well. Here is the story you must tell: he found you at my behest and obviously couldn’t return you to King’s Landing, where he was wanted for treason. When he learned I was going to Winterfell with your sister, he saw his opportunity. All told, it’s quite similar to what actually happened. You’ll barely have to lie at all.”

“I don’t care if all of your men stick a sword in his back,” Arya says. “ _ I  _ want to stick a sword in his back. He killed my friend. The baker’s boy.” Her anger turns to Sansa. “Because of  _ you _ . Because you wanted Joffrey to like you.”

Gods, Sansa thinks, that seems like forever ago.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, something she thinks she neglected to do when the incident first happened. “I did want Joffrey to like me then. He was my betrothed. I lost Lady because of that.”

“I lost my friend!”

The two of them stare at each other, Arya angry and panting, Sansa wondering if getting her sister back means everything she and Tyrion have striven to build here is going to come tumbling down.

“And now Joffrey is dead and we can all rejoice,” Tyrion interrupts. “Back to the original point. Ser Sandor agreed to come here after I sent Bronn as an addendum to my note, explaining the story I would tell that would excuse his actions at the Blackwater. He is here because I gave my word, and I will not break it, nor will I allow harm to come to someone we have extended guest right to. He is one of us now. Simple.”

“No,” Arya snaps.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Sansa argues. “Walder Frey and his friends betrayed guest right and killed our mother and brother. Would you have us be like him?” She catches Arya’s eye and holds it. “Which is worse, sister, lying or breaking a vow?”

Arya huffs. “I don’t like it. I don’t like him. I told him I was going to kill him. He’s on my list.”

Sansa will deal with the fact that her sister has a murder list another time. “Take him off, then. He is safe while he’s with us.”

“But he killed my friend.”

One day, Arya’s stubbornness is going to be her death, Sansa thinks.

“He saved me,” Sansa says. Another time, another her, wouldn’t be able to tell the story she’s about to tell, but she’s been hardened by Ramsay, and she knows what it’s like to feel unsafe in Winterfell. She won’t let anything, any _ one _ , make Winterfell unsafe again.

Arya rolls her eyes. “In King’s Landing. He said.”

“Did he tell you what he did?” Sansa asks. She takes a step towards her sister, reminding her that she is older, taller, and she holds all the power here. “A riot broke out over Joffrey. The people wanted him dead, his mother dead,  _ me _ dead. They wanted blood and when they couldn’t reach the royal family they attacked the guards, each other.”

Sansa remembers running through the streets, food and rocks flying, people shouting and grabbing. Her heart beating fast, from running, from fear. She remembers the stables, the men.

She closes her eyes for a moment and when she opens them, the memory can’t hurt her. “There were two men. Maybe it was three or four. I don’t quite remember. They chased me. Out of the street, into a hallway. Into a stable. There was no way out.”

Sansa looks at her sister, forces her to listen. “I slapped one. I don’t know what I thought I could do against grown men, but I tried. They threw me down on my stomach in the straw. I thought they were going to kill me.”

Sansa laughs. “They were quick to show that’s not what they wanted.”

Arya’s eyes go wide, at the story, maybe, or that Sansa is going to talk of things that ladies don’t speak of. Behind her, her husband is silent.

“They were going to rape me,” Sansa says. “They were going to press their hands to my wrists, my legs,  _ my throat _ until they left bruises. They were going to shove their -” Sansa takes a shaky breath - “their  _ cocks _ into me, and they were going take everything they wanted until I wished they would kill me. If I was lucky, they would slit my throat when they were done. Do you know what that kind of fear feels like?”

Arya shakes her head.

“Ser Sandor saved me,” Sansa says. “He killed all those men and brought me back to the castle. I’m not saying I don’t care about your friend. I’m not saying his virtue should be sung of in taverns. Men are not all good or all bad. But he saved me and he saved you, and we’re going to honor the promise we made to him that no harm would come from our people. Do you understand?”

Arya hangs her head. “I still want him dead,” she says, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in her now.

“Death comes to everyone eventually,” Tyrion tells her, his voice rough. He has to cough to clear it. “Look on the bright side; he is much older than you. The chances you will outlive him are incredibly high.”

Strangely enough, this does cheer Arya up, but only for a moment, because she seems finally to register Tyrion’s presence and who he is and she scowls. “You’re a Lannister.”

Tyrion laughs. “I suppose I’m on your list too.”

Arya frowns. “No,” she says, sounding confused by this. “Joffrey and Cersei are, because of what they did to my father, but you’re not. Should you be?”

“Any man would deny any action that would put him on a kill list,” Tyrion says. “It’s something you should discuss with your sister when I’m not around. Though hopefully my wife will warn me if I’m going to wake with a sword in my heart.”

“If I killed you in your sleep you wouldn’t wake up,” Arya tells him, rolling her eyes at his stupidity.

“You’re not killing my husband,” Sansa says. “You shouldn’t be killing anyone.”

“Husband?” Arya wrinkles her nose. “What happened to Joffrey? Besides the dying.”

“A lot has happened,” Sansa says. “And hopefully I’ll get to tell you about all of it. But what you need to know right now is that Tyrion is my husband, and we’re ruling Winterfell. We’re going to make the North safe again. Like father did.”

Arya still seems suspicious. “How’s a Lannister going to help with that? Everyone up here hates them.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Sansa says. “Interrupted by our trip to the capital.”

“The Hound wasn’t happy about that,” Arya says with a grin. “We’d finally gotten up here and you guys left. Did you really go to the funeral? Did you see Joffrey’s body? Is he really dead?”

“He is truly dead,” Sansa promises. 

“Good,” Arya says. “So, what happens now? I’m not going to start wearing dresses just ‘cause you’re in charge.”

Tyrion isn’t quite successful in stifling his laugh, and Sansa shoots him a quick glare. 

“A compromise,” Sansa says. “You may keep your boy’s clothes if you clean up your language.”

“Dress like a boy and sound like a lady? That’s strange.”

“I met a great warrior who did just that,” Sansa says. “Her name was Lady Brienne of Tarth. I can tell you about her at dinner if you like.”

“A great warrior?” Arya asks, interested despite herself.

“Would you like to hear about when she fought off a bear with a wooden sword or when she defeated Ser Jaime Lannister in a duel?”

“Really?” Arya asks. She turns to Tyrion. “A  _ girl _ beat your brother?”

“So I’ve been told,” Tyrion says. “Jaime, of course, denies it, but I’ve found Lady Brienne to be much more truthful than my brother so I find myself taking her side.”

“Is it dinner time yet?” Arya asks.

Sansa laughs. “Not for some time yet. Let’s get you a bath and then  _ clean _ boy’s clothes and then we can begin to discuss what you’ll do with your time now that you’re home.” 

“I want to keep learning to sword fight,” Arya says. 

“And I want you to learn the history of the Houses of Westeros,” Sansa says.

Arya scowls. “Compromise?”

Sansa smiles. “Compromise.”

~*~

Sansa is just getting ready for bed when there’s a knock at her door.

Arya pokes her head in and looks around before coming all the way inside. 

“Just you?” she asks.

“And the baby,” Sansa says. She doesn’t miss feeding him, but she does miss the closeness, and she likes to spend some quiet time with him when she can. “Lord Tyrion has his own chambers.”

“Then how’d you get that?” Arya asks, pointing at Eddard.

Nora doesn’t quite hide her laugh.

Sansa wonders why younger sisters are destined to be such embarrassments. “I’ll explain when you’re older.”

Arya scowls. “I know  _ how _ it happens. I’m not the baby, he is.”

Sansa wants to go to bed, not fight with Arya. She drops the subject. “I don’t think you and your nephew have been formally introduced. Come see him.”

“It’s a baby,” Arya says, barely glancing at him. “Babies are boring.”

“His name is Eddard,” Sansa says and she can see a slight softening in her sister’s eyes. “And now that you two have met, you can continue ignoring him.”

“I’ll teach him about dancing,” Arya says. “When he’s older.”

“I’m sure he’ll like that,” Sansa says, and she gives her son a last kiss before giving him to Nora to take to the nursery. “Now, what can I help you with?”

Arya fidgets. “You’re in Mother and Father’s room.”

“It’s where the Lady of Winterfell sleeps,” Sansa says.

“You have a big bed.”

Sansa sighs. “Is this about Tyrion again? Because my marriage -”

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Arya asks.

Sansa’s shocked enough that words desert her. Once she recovers, she pulls the blankets back, and Arya bounds over to climb in. 

“I miss everyone,” Arya admits after Sansa blows the candle out and the room is dark. “Mother and Father and Robb and Jon and Bran and Rickon.”

Sansa finds her sister in the dark and pulls her close. “I miss them too,” she says. She doesn’t mention that Bran and Rickon might be alive. No point in getting Arya’s hopes up. “I know it won’t make up for everything, but maybe when things are more secure we can go to the Wall. You can show Jon how good you are with your sword. Don’t show off too much, though. They might try to keep you there.”

Arya laughs. “Did you know that Jon gave me Needle? That’s my sword. I’d like to see him again. I even miss Theon, and he was always making fun of me.”

Sansa’s body goes cold. “What,” she says sharply. “He - you didn’t hear.”

“Hear what?”

“Bran and Rickon... it was Theon who killed them.”

“What?” Arya demands, flipping to look at Sansa even though it’s too dark to see. Sansa gets an elbow to the shoulder and is grateful it wasn’t her face. “I heard Winterfell burned and they died, but Theon?”

“He betrayed us,” Sansa says. “He burned Bran and Rickon alive and killed Maester Luwin. He escaped, but if we ever find him, he will pay for what he did.”

Arya wraps her arms around her sister. “I’ll add him to my list.”

Sansa listens as her sister recites the names of the people she means to kill. She tries to remember what each of them did, why her sister might have them on her list, but soon gives it up. Let Arya have her revenge; Sansa will have her own. 

Once Arya is quiet, Sansa runs through her own mantra.

Winter is coming. There are now two Starks in Winterfell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Frank discussions of past sexual assault, not very well disguised as happening to 'a friend'

Sansa wakes with the sun, and she eases out of bed, letting a grumbling Arya go back to sleep. She’s surprised to find Tyrion waiting for her; he is not an early riser.

He sighs, fidgets, and generally looks anywhere but at her as they go to the room he’s appropriated as his study. He hasn’t said anything about the perfectly serviceable study that is collecting dust, and she is grateful for that. Usually. Right now she’s trying not to panic over his odd behavior; she’s missed something, and nothing good has ever come of secrets kept from her. 

“Something troubles you?” She has a sudden thought, and curses herself for being an idiot. “Arya?”

He finally seems to come out of his reverie. “What? Oh, she’s charming.”

“That’s not what I meant, though I’m glad one of us thinks so.”

“Ah. There’s nothing to worry about, as a younger sister she won’t be a threat to your position here.”

Sansa had been worrying about that, but hearing it put quite so bluntly makes her feel small and heartless.

“Still, it might be best to arrange a marriage for her early, just so there’s no confusion. Something for both of us to think about.”

Sansa just nods. Normally she would be pleased that she and her husband are of one mind on the matter before they even discuss it, but now she’s even more confused about what has upset him. Has something else happened?

Oh gods. Has he had news about the Boltons?

“I have something I want to ask you,” he says, looking as nervous as she’s ever seen him. He also appears to have slept poorly. “I know it might be difficult to speak of, especially to me, but…”

He trails off. Sansa’s confusion has not abated.

“That story you told Arya last night, about the Hound rescuing you. I remember that day.” He grimaces.

“Were you hurt in the riot?” She hadn’t paid much attention to Tyrion then, and can’t remember.

“Me? Oh, no. I just kept my head down, and made it back to the palace with the main force.” He pauses, looking embarrassed. “When we realized you were missing, Joffrey refused to send anyone after you. I… might have slapped him.”

Sansa had heard about the slap, of course, but not the details. “Oh.”

“It didn’t accomplish anything, and the Hound showed up a few minutes later, so I just stirred up a lot of trouble for nothing, something I excel at, actually, but there you have it.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Are you… did you… edit that story, for Arya’s sake?”

“What do you mean?”

He exhales in frustration. “You… you said the Hound reached you before anything… happened.”

Oh. Now she understands. “I spoke true. I was bruised where they held me down, and my dress was ruined, but that’s all.”

He doesn’t look reassured. “If… if something had happened to you, at any time, I hope you don’t think… I’m not the kind of man that would… hold that against you.”

Sansa is starting to get a little frustrated herself. Why is he fixating on this story? It’s hardly one of the worst things that’s ever happened to her. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“We don’t have to talk about this,” he says immediately, which, why is he talking about it then? “It’s just… things have been better, between us, and there’s a conversation we need to have if we’re going to… going to go forward.”

Sansa has been having similar thoughts, about the way they've almost been getting along, though she still doesn’t see how that story is relevant to a discussion about their relationship.

“I think I’m just going to have to come right out and say it. Has anyone ever… touched you without your consent? Not just that incident?”

For a moment, Sansa’s whole body just freezes. She doesn’t even think her heart is beating. “No,” she croaks, which is just about the least convincing denial ever. “No,” she says again.

Tyrion looks deeply troubled. “Because I wouldn’t care… I mean, of course I would care, if someone hurt you, but I wouldn’t blame you, or think less of you, or no longer want you for a wife.”

Even though this body has never been violated, and his words aren’t relevant to her current circumstances, it means something to Sansa to hear them.

Still. He’s just making everything complicated.

“Nothing like that has happened to me,” she says firmly, pushing all thoughts of Ramsay far away.

“Okay.”

He must be getting this idea from somewhere. Can he… sense something somehow? He does seem to have an uncanny ability to suss out people’s secrets just from looking at them. She doesn’t need his skill to know that he is not convinced. “I… asked for advice, when I was engaged,” she improvises. “From a friend.”

“A friend.”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly ask my mother, could I?”

He holds up a hand. “Sorry, sorry. You got engaged to Joffrey, and talked to a friend about it.”

“One of the girls who came with us from the North,” she says. Their whole entourage was put to the sword, so there will be no way to check this story. “I wanted to know about,” even now, even with her husband and the father of her child, she blushes, “marital duties.”

He doesn’t laugh at her, which she was half afraid he would.

It’s deceptively disarming, and she finds herself recounting that first night with Ramsay. She is careful to keep it impersonal, and remembers not to mention Theon.

Tyrion is horrified. “And your friend just… told you this?”

“I think she was trying to make me feel better about Joffrey,” Sansa says.

He closes his mouth on whatever he meant to say in reply and frowns, thinking. “Is this the same Ramsay as that story about the hounds?”

Sansa curses herself. She’s never been much good at spinning tales. “Yes. I… this isn’t exactly appropriate dinner conversation, so I didn’t mention it then.”

“Well. I should say not.” He shakes his head. “That explains a lot.”

Sansa can’t imagine what conclusions he’s drawn. She should have thought this through more.

He arranges his face into an… almost gentle expression. “Sansa. These, er, ‘marital duties’ can be very… pleasant, for the man and the woman both.”

“Except I’m not very good at it?” She means to sound cool, maybe slightly accusatory, but instead she just sounds bitter and hurt.

“No! That… that is absolutely not what I was going to say.” He shudders. “No.”

Now it’s Sansa’s turn not to be convinced.

“I think… your friend… might have given you some… peculiar ideas about the nature of the, um, act. It’s not an… ordeal to be overcome, or, a vehicle for having children. I mean, it can be both of those things, and obviously that is how children are made, but-” He stops. Coughs. “What your friend told you… that’s rape. That is not what marital duties are supposed to be like. The very idea is… totally abhorrent to me. To most people, I would think, well, hope, but absolutely, definitely to me.”

“Well, of course not,” Sansa says. “You never try to hurt me.”

Tyrion does not seem comforted. “Gods, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Sansa decides not to say anything else, possibly ever.

“Let me put this another way. There is… there’s an emotion, attached to the act. For your friend, I imagine the primary emotion was repulsion, possibly fear. The… the absence of fear is, is the bare minimum any decent man should expect from his partner. For most people, in a healthy marriage, there’s… affection, trust, contentment, even love. It’s… holding hands at table, and brushing her hair back from her face, or straightening his tunic.”

“But that’s romantic stuff,” Sansa says, forgetting her vow of silence. She cringes at how stupid she must sound.

“Yes, that is exactly what I meant! Romance and marriage can go together. I mean, they don’t have to, but, there’s a certain intimacy, a trust, between two people, a physical closeness.” He huffs. “And now I’m just saying things.”

Sansa hadn’t thought of romance in marriage since she first learned what Joffrey really was. Somehow, the whole idea is stuck in the past with the Sansa who read about shining knights, entirely separate from Sansa-the-woman’s idea of sex and duty and babies. “Huh.”

“But I might have stumbled across something helpful by accident?” Tyrion asks hopefully.

“I need to think about this,” Sansa says.

“Yes. Good. That’s a good idea. Let’s both do that.”

Sansa feels a rush of affection for her husband, who can be so eloquent when negotiating for Winterfell and so hopeless when he tries to talk to her. She rests her hand briefly on his.

He smiles at her, the real, lopsided one she first saw in King’s Landing.

Maybe she understands what he was trying to say after all.

~*~

In an unspoken agreement to give each other some breathing room, they break for the morning meal.

Fortunately, Arya is all the distraction anyone could ask for. Sansa can’t keep the smile off her face even as Arya eats with the most atrocious table manners Sansa has ever seen. She stabs at her food like a commoner, and that was only after Sansa’s sharp look when Arya used her  _ hands _ .

“I was with a shipment of men to the wall,” Arya says around a mouthful of sausage. “Thieves and criminals and the like. And then I was a prisoner at Harrenhal. And then a prisoner of the Brothers without Banners. And then I was with the Hound. Table manners weren’t really a thing.”

“They are now,” Sansa says. “And it’s Ser Sandor.”

Arya sighs. 

Sansa reminds herself that Arya doesn’t know the trials Sansa’s been through just the same as Sansa doesn’t fully know the trials Arya has been through. The two of them had already been very different people and what’s happened to them since their father’s execution has sent them even farther apart. But they’re together again and have to find a way to bridge those differences.

“Table manners might one day save your life the same way your swordwork might,” Sansa says.

Arya eyes her knife critically. “It’s short. And not very sharp.”

“Imagine you were in King’s Landing instead of me,” Sansa says, patiently. “If you used your knife like a weapon, if you spoke to Cersei as bluntly as you speak to me, how quick do you think she’d throw you in the dungeons?”

Arya refuses to answer, her go-to when she doesn’t want to admit she might not be in the right.

“How long would you survive in them?” Sansa asks. “How miserable could she let you get while still keeping you alive? I was a prisoner in my time there, but there are different prisons and sometimes the only power you have is to choose which prison you occupy.”

Arya looks over at Tyrion, curious.

“I was certainly a prison,” Tyrion says, “Though, she was one for me as well.”

“Being ladylike, being polite and demure and everything you hate kept me living in relative comfort,” Sansa says. “It kept me living long enough for the events to transpire that allowed Tyrion and I to come North.”

“I’d much rather stab someone than  _ wait _ ,” Arya says. “Your way is boring.”

“It is,” Sansa says, “and it’s not easy, and I hope you never have to survive like that, but I want you to be prepared in just in case. I’m not asking you to relearn your lessons because I’m cruel, or because I hate you. I want you to have these tools in case you need them.”

“I just don’t see how words and manners are better than a sword,” Arya says.

“You should’ve seen your sister at Joffrey’s wedding,” Tyrion says. “She cut him deeper than any sword of yours could, and he couldn’t do a thing about it..”

“You talked back to Joffrey?” Arya asks. “ _ You _ ?”

“I was young and silly when I first met him,” Sansa says. “I had little girl dreams of being Queen and silly ideas about what love and courtship are. He - he made sure I outgrew those. I’m glad you escaped King’s Landing even if I thought you had to be dead. You never would’ve survived the games at court.”

Arya abandons her sausage. “What was it like?”

This isn’t a conversation for breakfast, and it isn’t really a conversation Sansa ever wants to have again, but Sansa knows she and Arya can’t come together if they don’t talk about what happened to them.

“Joffrey’s favorite pastime was to bring me to the ramparts and show me all the heads he had up on pikes. Father’s, our septa’s, our guards’. He would bring me out and make me look until I learned not to be sick. It’s why I let myself hope that you were alive. He would be too eager to show me your head on that wall if they’d found you.”

“I would’ve pushed him off the wall,” Arya says. She rips a piece off a sweet roll and stuffs it in her mouth.

“I wanted to,” Sansa admits. “I almost did. But Ser Sandor saw what I was thinking, and he stopped me. I would’ve lost my head just like Father did, and I guess Ser Sandor wanted me to live. I was angry at him for quite some time.”

Tyrion looks up, this story new to him, and Sansa realizes they’re casually discussing how much they wanted his nephew dead. “Um.”

Tyrion waves off her concern. “My nephew was a monster. It wasn’t a secret, but because he was King it was treason to speak of it. Though, because he was King it was treason every time I slapped him for being an idiot, but being uncle to the King has some perks.”

“You hit Joffrey?” Arya asks. 

“More than once,” Tyrion says. “The riot Sansa told you about? He made it safely back to the castle and when I asked him where his betrothed was, he implied that he didn’t care if the mob swept her up and killed her. So I hit him.”

“I would have stabbed him.”

“I don’t think that would have helped. Not that it mattered, since Sansa was already being rescued anyway.”

“You cared,” Sansa says. “When it wasn’t popular to care about me.”

They share a look across the table, Sansa smiling at how far they’ve come since then. 

“Ew,” Arya declares, and then tries to cram the rest of her sausage in her mouth at once.

~*~

After breakfast, Arya goes to Bronn, the only person Tyrion trusts not to accidentally kill her during training. Well, Ser Sandor is also on that list, but he refuses to train Arya so that was that.

Sansa and Tyrion retire to his study, because he says he has some business to attend to before they go to the Great Hall for hearings.

“Business that involves me?” Sansa asks. The morning’s discussion still weighs heavily on her mind.

“I hate to bring this up so soon,” Tyrion explains, “but I must write to my father and  tell him of Arya’s arrival. I wouldn’t be surprised if every Lannister man in the Keep is spying for him.”

Sansa’s uneasy with anyone knowing there are more Starks, especially the capital because they enjoy killing Starks, but she understands the necessity. 

“She’s a girl,” Sansa reminds him. “She’s not a threat.”

“Not the way a male Stark would be,” Tyrion agrees, “but there is the possibility that people who aren’t happy with us might try to use her.”

Sansa knows it’s a serious subject but she still laughs. “Good luck to anyone trying to get Arya to do something she doesn’t want to do.”

Tyrion smiles as well. “True. But it’s likely father will want to arrange a marriage for her. You’ll need to prepare yourself for that.”

Sansa sits heavily in the second chair at Tyrion’s desk. “Maybe we should’ve let her wander the countryside with Ser Sandor.”

“And get picked up by the Freys?” Tyrion asks. “Or the Boltons? Or Greyjoys? Or -”

Sansa waves him off. “Fine. She’s safer here than out there. But she won’t want to get married.”

“Keep counseling her like you did at breakfast,” Tyrion says. “She’s a smart girl. She’ll understand that she needs this to survive.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I wish she could be happy instead of focusing on survival. Isn’t that why we came up here? To make things better?”

Tyrion takes her hands in his. “We  _ are _ making things better. There are two Starks in Winterfell now when there had been one. We’ve rebuilt our walls. We’re assembling a force that will be able to march on our enemies. Father is practical, but he’s not needlessly cruel. To people he didn’t sire, anyway. We’ll get a good match for Arya.”

Sansa lets him hold her hands and allows herself one more small moment of weakness. “I don’t want to lose her again so soon,” she admits. “I’m finally getting my family back and it won’t be for long.”

Tyrion releases one of her hands so he can touch her cheek, tilt her face so she’s looking at him.

“We’ll keep her safe. No matter where she goes, we’ll protect her.”

Sansa nods, wanting to believe him even though she knows it’s an impossible promise to keep. There’s nowhere safe in all the kingdoms. Not even Winterfell. “I guess if it’s a horrible match then we can send her to the Wall with Jon.” 

She smiles, so Tyrion knows she’s joking, and is rewarded when he Tyrion laughs. 

“She might actually enjoy it up there.”

“Did you?” Sansa asks as Tyrion goes back to his desk to ink his message to Tywin.

“It was cold,” Tyrion says. “And wine was in short supply.”

“So you hated it,” Sansa teases. Though to be honest, he has moderated his drinking significantly since they came to Winterfell, whether because supplies are still low or a personal resolve, she doesn’t know and hasn’t asked. 

“Let’s just say I’m glad I’m not a man of the Night’s Watch,” Tyrion says, not taking offense. “I think your brother might actually enjoy it up there.”

“I hope things settle soon so we can see him,” Sansa says.

“He won’t come back here,” Tyrion cautions. “He took a vow to live out the rest of his days on that wall.”

“I know. I just want to see him with my own eyes again. Make sure he’s alive. Happy.”

“With nothing to drink but melted snow?” Tyrion asks. “Probably just alive.”

Sansa laughs. Distance from those first months together in King’s Landing has softened her heart towards her husband. Being home, having him on her side; things have changed. 

She feels...content. Like she could one day be happy.

She crosses to Tyrion’s side of the desk to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m going to say my prayers in the godswood before I meet you in the Great Hall. Unless there’s something else you need?”

Tyrion touches his cheek, looking pleased. He brushes a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you there, my lady.”

~*~

They hear petitions all morning and take a late-day rather than a midday meal because of it, and Sansa can’t imagine an afternoon cooped up inside.

“Wynn, have Hullen saddle up my horse,” she says as they finish eating. “I’m going for a ride.”

There is matching surprise on both Tyrion and Arya’s faces. Surprise Sansa doesn’t think is entirely justified.

“It took me half the trip from King’s Landing to get my riding muscles,” Sansa tells her husband. “I’m not going to let them go lax in time for another long journey.”

“If you want to ride, of course you can ride,” Tyrion says, recovering better than Arya who is still gawking. “Who are you bringing to protect you?”

“Ser Sandor can come,” Sansa says knowing she has to take at least one guard with her. “He should scare off any bandits or wild animals lurking about.” She looks at her sister. “Do you want to come with us?”

Arya scrunches up her nose. “Ladies ride slow. I’m going to chase cats.”

“Of course you are,” Sansa says. And people act as if she’s the strange one. 

“You should take some food, though,” Arya says. “He’s always hungry. And you might get lost.”

“We’re not going to get lost,” Sansa says, before Tyrion can get worried. “We’ll stay in sight of Winterfell the whole time. I’m looking for a bit of exercise, not an adventure.”

“Boring,” Arya repeats. “Can I go now?”

“There’s still food on the table,” Tyrion says, referencing the voracious appetite she’s had since getting back. “Are you sure you’re done?”

Sansa thinks it’s a small miracle that her sister and her husband can joke, but Arya grins and snatches two rolls before sprinting off to terrorize the Keep’s cats. 

Tyrion helps Sansa pack a small bundle of boar, rolls, and dried fruit even though she’s not going to get lost, and then he escorts her down to the stables.

“I’m not going off to war,” Sansa says as he stands at the gates to wave to her and Ser Sandor as they leave.

“Indulge me, wife,” Tyrion says, and Sansa rolls her eyes and throws him a kiss before nudging her horse forward. 

“I hope Winterfell has been treating you well,” Sansa says to her riding companion once they’ve put some distance between them and the keep. There’s a light snow on the ground, and Sansa can look back at the path they’ve traveled. 

“There’s food and drink,” Ser Sandor says. “And no one’s trying to outright kill me. Could be worse.”

“The Lannister men aren’t giving you trouble?”

Sandor laughs. “They’re cowards.”

Sansa decides to tactfully ignore that.

“I’ll get bored soon, though,” Ser Sandor says. “I’ll need a good fuck or a good fight.”

Sansa knows he uses crude language to try and get a rise out of her so she doesn’t let it. “There will be plenty of fighting soon. The Lannisters have a lot of enemies up here, and I’m half Lannister.”

“Starks have enemies too,” Ser Sandor points out.

“And we’re going to deal with them all,” Sansa says. She’s quiet for a moment, the only sound their horses as they move through the snow. “I never got the chance to thank you for offering to rescue me from King’s Landing.”

Ser Sandor looks surprised, then uncomfortable with her thanks. “You seem to have managed for yourself.”

“I did,” Sansa says. “And being home is a better life than one on the run, but I didn’t know I would end up here. And neither did you when you made the offer. I justed wanted to say thank you. For me and for my sister.”

“Your sister I delivered for money,” Ser Sandor reminds her.

“It was a lot of hassle from what she tells me,” Sansa says, “and that’s not including  _ her _ as part of the hassle.”

“She’s a brat.”

Sansa laughs. “She can be. But she’s my sister and I love her.”

“She’s never going to be a lady. Not like you are.”

Sansa shrugs. “This is a dangerous world for ladies to live in. You know that as well as I do. I’ve found ways to protect myself, ways she’ll never master. But she’s found her own ways. The past few years have given more importance to survival in my mind.”

She kicks her horse into a brisker pace, letting her body become reaccustomed to the bounces and bumps of riding. She wasn’t lying when she told Tyrion and Arya that she wanted to keep in practice. She never knows when they’ll be called to King’s Landing again, and she has plans to visit the Wall and will probably have to visit other parts of the North. 

They’re approaching the edge of the forest when her horse comes to a stop, tossing its head and refusing to go further.

“Something’s spooked ‘em,” Ser Sandor says, his horse stopping next to hers.

Sansa hesitates. Arya would go rushing in, but experience says Sansa should turn around and go back to where she’d come from. 

What would her husband do?

He would want to know everything, even if there was a risk to himself.

Sansa turns to Ser Sandor with a slight smile. “Let’s tie up the horses and investigate.”

He looks at her like he’s never seen her before.

“Someone could be hurt,” Sansa says. “They could need our help.”

“Horses don’t spook for people.”

“Then maybe it’s a bear.” Sansa gets down from her saddle. “If we bring it back we could have a feast. People might like you more.”

“I don’t care if people like me,” he says, gruff, but he gets off his horse when he sees she’s serious about investigating.

“You care about being alive,” she says. “And in my experience, the better liked you are the longer you live.”

She takes the bundle of food Tyrion insisted she bring and starts for the woods.

“I also care about  _ you _ being alive,” he says, cutting in front of her with a glower. “Gods know why, though.”

Sansa doesn’t know either, but she intends to keep using this knowledge to her advantage. 

The snow comes up to their ankles, but Sansa has her sturdy winter boots to keep her feet both warm and dry. The snow covers the fallen leaves and roots that pop up through the forest so they have to step carefully.

They’re a few hundred feet from the horses when Sansa hears the first pitiful whine. It’s not human.

Ser Sandor puts his arm out to halt her progress. “Dying animals spook easy. We should let it be.”

“If it’s that hurt we should put it out of its misery,” Sansa says. She sidesteps his arm and forges forward, forcing him follow her or let her march into the woods alone.

With two easy strides he takes the lead again.

“As stubborn as your sister,” he mutters.

Sansa just smiles and tries to step in his footprints. 

They travel several more paces, and then Ser Sandor comes to as sudden a stop as the horses did and Sansa almost runs into his back.

“We should go back to the horses,” Ser Sandor says. 

He doesn’t sound scared, because Sansa doubts he’s been scared since the day with the fire when he was a boy, but there is something in his voice that makes Sansa peer around him. And what she sees -

“Nymeria?” she gasps.

The direwolf stops its whining to lift its head, eyes pleading with Sansa for help. There is no doubt in her mind that this is Arya’s direwolf, somehow surviving after Arya chased her away during the incident with Joffrey.

The animal is stuck, leg caught in a trap designed for a stag or maybe a bear. Her mostly white fur blends in with the snow except for the streaks of grey and the splash of red from where she’s bled.

“You know this thing?” Ser Sandor asks. 

“She’s Arya’s,” Sansa says, already moving forward. “And she’s hurt, not dying. We can bring her back.”

Ser Sandor reaches out to grab Sansa’s arm and hold her in place. “We’re not going anywhere near it.”

Sansa doesn’t have the strength to fight him so she just looks up at him, patient. “Nymeria trusts me. She won’t hurt me.”

“It’s an animal and it’s hurt. There’s no guarantees what it’ll do.”

“Then we ride back to Winterfell and I pick up Arya and the two of us will come back here and rescue her.”

“Or,” Ser Sandor draws his blade with his free hand. 

Nymeria whimpers.

“Please, don’t,” Sansa says. “Trust me. I can do this.”

Ser Sandor shakes his head. “Fine. But if you get hurt, I’m taking both horses and riding as far from Winterfell as I can get.”

Sansa smiles as he releases her. “Thank you.”

She opens the bundle of food and pulls out the meat, Nymeria lifting her head in interest when she smells it.

“It’s not a fresh kill but it’ll do,” Sansa tells the direwolf, tossing the meat towards her.

As soon as Nymeria’s eating, Sansa ventures closer to get a look at the trap. It’s iron and heavy, spiked jaws clamped around Nymeria’s hind leg. Sansa’s not sure she’ll be able to open it on her own. She looks over her shoulder at Ser Sandor.

“No,” he says.

Sansa tries to pry the trap open and it doesn’t budge. 

Nymeria stops eating to whine again, like she knows she’s going to die here. 

Ser Sandor groans and stomps over. “Keep her busy,” he says.

Sansa hides her smile by leaning in close to Nymeria. “We’re going to bring you home,” she says, petting her fur. “Arya’s there. She’ll be so happy to see you. We thought you were gone forever.”

Lost the way she had thought Arya was lost.

Ser Sandor grunts and pries the trap apart long enough for Sansa to ease Nymeria’s leg out. As soon as she does, Ser Sandor lets the trap go and it springs back into place.

“Don’t you dare bite me,” Ser Sandor tells Nymeria as he lifts her in his arms. “Bitch is heavy.”

Nymeria snaps her teeth at him, and he snarls back, and Sansa thinks it’ll be a miracle if they all make it back unharmed.

~*~

Nymeria tries to walk, but in the end they have to rig a sort of sling to carry her back to Winterfell. It takes all their winter layers, and even then only much swearing by Ser Sandor gets the terrified horses to cooperate.

Sansa keeps Nymeria calm on their unsteady and thankfully brief journey. She’s smart, and lies quietly under Sansa’s steady hand. She tried to take Ser Sandor’s hand off when he helped lift her onto the sling, leading to yet more swearing about wild animals, but in Sansa’s opinion it was just good judgment on Nymeria’s part. She certainly isn’t giving Sansa any trouble.

There are excited mutterings when Sansa comes through the gate with a direwolf, and several of the servants in the courtyard make the sign of the Seven on their chests. 

News must travel fast, because Sansa has only just dismounted when Arya sprints into the courtyard, a wriggling cat in her arms. She drops the poor creature and it flicks its tail at her before slinking away.

“Is that-” Arya rushes to Sansa’s side to touch her wolf’s head. “Nymeria? You found her?”

Sansa points to Nymeria’s leg. “She got caught in a trap, but we’ll nurse her back to health.”

Arya buries her face in Nymeria’s fur, and Sansa leaves the two of them to their reunion to find Farlen, their kennel master. He’s left the hounds to investigate the commotion which means Sansa doesn’t have to go far, something she’s thankful for. She wants to go nowhere near the kennels of Winterfell.

Myranda brought her here to tell her about Ramsay’s preferred use of the hounds, and though Sansa knows he and his hounds aren’t here, will  _ never _ be here, she still can’t bring herself to go down there. 

“I want a bed for Nymeria in my room,” Sansa says, “and instructions on how to care for her.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Farlen asks. “Direwolves are wild. They’re not pets.”

“That’s what you said last time.” Sansa nods her head towards where Nymeria is happily licking Arya’s face. “Nymeria won’t hurt either of us. She’ll be safest in my room, and everyone else will be safe from her.”

Farlen still looks skeptical.

“Nymeria was the last gift my father gave to Arya before he died,” Sansa says, because she knows how to get what she wants.

Sure enough, Farlen doesn’t dare protest again after that, and Nymeria is in Sansa’s room by nightfall.

“I know I’m in the minority,” Tyrion says as he and Sansa share dinner together, Arya electing to eat with Nymeria in Sansa’s room, “but I’ll sleep better knowing you have a direwolf watching over you.”

“For the first time in my life, I think I’ve made Arya happy,” Sansa says. “Even if Nymeria had no claws and no teeth I’d be glad to have her.”

“The claws and teeth are a plus.”

“They are,” Sansa agrees. She doesn’t carry a sword like Arya or have a bodyguard like Tyrion, but maybe, as long as Arya stays with them, Sansa can have a direwolf to protect her.

“One question,” Tyrion says. “If you go out riding again will you return with a bear cub?”

Sansa laughs, and she thinks it surprises both of them. “Would you like a bear cub, husband? It can’t make a worse pet than a direwolf. Perhaps not quite as limber, but fierce in its own way.”

“You know, we Lannisters have a lion on our shields, but we don’t actually raise them. You’re taking your commitment to the Stark sigil quite seriously.”

“Good think I’m a Stark and not a Tyrell, or all we’d have are some thorns to protect us.”

“You were close to being a Tyrell,” Tyrion reminds her. “And you’d have your Knight of the Flowers to protect you. You wouldn’t need a direwolf.”

“I wouldn’t be home if I’d married Ser Loras,” Sansa says. “I wouldn’t have Arya. And,” she hesitates, eyes flicking over to her husband. “I wouldn’t have you.”

“I’m not sure I rank up there with your childhood home and your sister in importance.”

“Not yet,” Sansa says, because she tries to be truthful when she can, “but your importance in my life is growing.”

Tyrion still looks surprised, and unconvinced, but he doesn’t protest further.

~*~

The irony is not lost on Sansa that, just as she and Tyrion are beginning to get somewhere resolving their relationship, there’s the sudden addition of nosy younger sisters and half-wild direwolves to contend with.

“I think I’ll wait here,” Tyrion says, thankfully amused that Nymeria won’t even let him in Sansa’s room, let alone her bed.

“Maybe I should come to your chambers,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

It’s a good question. “Yes.”

His room is only a short walk down the hall from hers. It’s nice enough, and he doesn’t seem to feel slighted. It was Robb’s room, and she wonders if anyone mentioned that to him, or if that would make him feel better or worse about it.

“Sansa,” he says, taking her hands.

She jumps.

He gives her a sad smile. “Come, sit. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Not so long ago, Sansa would have scoffed at that. What could possibly happen here that she wanted to do? Now, she’s willing to wait and see.

She’s still skeptical though.

“May I kiss you?”

“Alright.” Kissing is fine.

Tyrion smiles, and kisses her.

It’s nice enough, she supposes.

“Can I ask for something?”

She pulls back and reaches for her stays.

“Not that. Not now. Actually, not tonight, I think.”

Sansa wraps her arms around herself; now she feels uncomfortable. “Eddard is getting older,” she reminds him.

“As children do. We are both young--well, you are anyway--and we have plenty of time to have more children. Tonight, is just about you. Us.”

Sansa hesitates. She doesn’t want to get overconfident. One son is good, but two is better. “What do you want?”

“You are a beautiful and accomplished woman, Sansa. I have every confidence that you will unite the North and turn back the winter. It is my honor--and pleasure--to kiss you. I wonder… could I trouble you, to kiss me?” 

Sansa has no idea what to say to such extravagant praise. So she leans forward and kisses him.

She still feels like she’s being too forward. But he seems to like it, kissing her back, stroking her hair.

It occurs to her that kissing was perhaps not one of those things where you take turns. But before she can get too embarrassed, he makes an appreciative noise, and breaks off, and… is he blushing?

He is! Just a little bit, but the scar gives him away, pale against his pink cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking at her. “I’m… I think we need to take things slowly, I have a plan, so-” He looks up, and stops talking mid-word.

Sansa imagines she looks smug. She feels smug.

“Is that how it is?” he asks, and she gets to see a new smile, one that is slightly wicked.

This time they kiss each other from the start, and she experiments with moving her hands, touching his shoulders, and he buries his fingers in her hair and cups the back of her head, and that feels very nice, and-

The door bangs open.

“Oh my gods what are you doing!” Arya shrieks.

Sansa buries her face in her hands while Tyrion dissolves into laughter. She’s going to hit him with a pillow.

“My eyes!”

She eventually gets Arya calmed down and they go back to Sansa’s room, with Sansa giggling at random intervals and Arya giving her death glares.

It is, Sansa reflects later, when Arya is snoring in her ear, as unlike her earlier walks of shame as anything could be.

She’ll visit her husband again.

She might even look forward to it.

~*~

A few days pass with no major crises, then Hullen’s son Laurent comes sprinting into the dining room, cheeks red and a raven scroll clutched in his hand.  Sansa looks up from where she and Tyrion were lingering over supper.

“You’re supposed to knock and wait for permission to enter,” Podrick reminds the boy.

“But it’s from the  _ capital _ . That means it’s important.”

“Yes,” Podrick says. “But you still must knock.”

Laurent hangs his head.

“It’s okay,” Sansa says, “You’re still learning. You have a message for us?”

Laurent gives it to Podrick who reads the outside. “It’s for Lord Tyrion. It bears the seal of the Hand of the King.”

“Official business,” Tyrion says, taking the scroll. “That’s never good.”

Laurent hovers near the table, as if he’s unsure if he’s successfully completed his duty, and Sansa sneaks him a roll before giving him a push towards the door. He grins at her, bread crumbs at the corner of his mouth, and runs out as fast as he’d run in.

“It’s too soon for him to have gotten our raven about Arya,” Sansa says once Laurent is gone.

“I know,” Tyrion says absently, all his attention on the letter in his hands.

Sansa studies her husband’s face, growing worried when she sees his brows draw together in a deep frown. Not good news, then. She pushes her plate away and glances over at Podrick. He’s standing at rest, hands clasped before him, staring at the floor and pretending he is part of the wall. 

He will offer no comfort.

Sansa is sure Tyrion has to have read the letter at least twice, and she’s about to burst with impatience when he finally tosses it on the table.

“The Boltons have taken the Eyrie,” Tyrion finally says.

Sansa is going to be sick.

The Boltons have the Eyrie. She thought Lord Tywin was going to prevent this. What will happen now? Will they be content in the mountains? Will they spread to the rest of the Vale? Once they have the Vale, will they look towards the rest of the North?

Will the Freys fall in line behind them? Will the Greyjoys? Are they going to march an army through her homeland?

One thing at a time.

“The rest of the Vale?” Sansa asks.

Tyrion shakes his head, eyeing her with concern. “Not under their control yet. They moved faster than anyone thought they would, and my father will need time to amass an army that can take the Eyrie. It is well-fortified. But he has enough troops in place to keep them from going anywhere else. Don’t worry; they will suffer for what they did to your family.”

“My family?” Sansa echoes.

Tyrion looks even more concerned. “Your aunt and cousin. Did you not hear me just now?”

Sansa shakes her head. “Aunt Lysa is dead?”

“And the boy,” Tyrion says. “I was not on the best of terms with them, but they were your family and for that I’m sorry.”

Sansa doesn’t have the time now to sort out her feelings towards them. “Did they suffer?”

“No word on how they died,” Tyrion says.

“And my Lord Baelish?”

“Also dead,” Tyrion says.

Sansa takes a deep breath. One enemy dead but an even greater one grows in power. “I should be the one to break the news to Arya.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says.

Sansa twists her napkin between her hands. She won’t be able to eat anymore tonight. “I should do that now.”

“Sansa,” Tyrion calls and she pauses, already halfway to the door. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“When you write your father back, tell him I pray for speed. The Boltons cannot be allowed to take the Vale. They’ll be difficult enough to dislodge from the Eyrie.”

“I meant,” Tyrion shakes his head. “Never mind what I meant. Spend the night with your sister. In the morning, we won’t let any ravens interrupt our breakfast.”

Sansa dips into a slight curtsey and hurries upstairs to tell Arya.

When she gets to their rooms, Arya is rolling a ball between Nymeria’s front paws, close enough that that wolf doesn’t have to move much to bat at it. Arya’s distracted by the game, and doesn’t hear Sansa’s approach.

“Oof,” Arya says when Sansa wraps her up in a fierce hug. “What’s that for?”

Arya could’ve been in the Eyrie. Ser Sandor almost brought her to Aunt Lysa, and changed his mind when he heard Sansa was coming North. If Lord Tywin had waited to send her, if secrets didn’t have a habit of escaping in King’s Landing and word never reached Ser Sandor about Sansa’s movement. If, if, if. 

So many ways Arya could’ve been in the Eyrie and at the Boltons’ mercy. At  _ Ramsay’s _ mercy.

Sansa holds her tighter. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I thank the gods every morning that you came back to me.”

“Ugh, feelings,” Arya says.

Sansa isn’t as broken up about her Aunt Lysa and Cousin Robert’s deaths as she should be. She’ll have to mourn more visibly so Tyrion doesn’t think anything wrong. She knows that this Aunt Lysa didn’t try to shove her through the moon door, that this cousin Robert hadn’t been cruel to her like their counterparts in Sansa’s other life, but they have the potential to be. Had the potential to be. 

Sansa runs her hand through Arya’s short hair. “A raven arrived during dinner.”

Arya goes still in her arms. “Who died?”

What a terrible world where that is a child’s first question. “Aunt Lysa and cousin Robert. The Boltons have taken the Eyrie.”

“Mother’s sister?” Arya asks. She was never as good at learning all the Houses and their important members as Sansa and Robb were. 

“Yes.”

Arya shrugs. “You’re going to tell me it’s proper to be sad, but I didn’t know them so I don’t really care.”

That’s her sister, Sansa thinks, who cares more for the death of a butcher’s boy than her own flesh and blood. Not that Sansa can judge. She doesn’t think she’ll shed a genuine tear over their deaths.

“Wait,” Arya says. “Are you leaving to fight them?”

“No,” Sansa answers. “Lord Tywin, my father by law, is sending an army to fight them. He’ll make sure to kill them all.”

Arya relaxes and then, deciding there’s no danger, slips out from under Sansa’s embrace.

“I was his cupbearer,” Arya says. “When I was a prisoner at Harrenhal.”

“You were Lord Tywin’s cupbearer?” Sansa asks. “Did he notice?”

“No,” Arya grins. “I helped Robb’s army. Rewrote some letters, misdirected some ravens.” The smile falls from her face. “Not that it helped much. When Lord Baelish showed up, I thought he was going to recognize me. But then I escaped so it was okay.”

“Uncle Petyr’s dead too,” Sansa says. She’d forgotten to mention that.

“Uncle Petyr?” Arya scrunches her nose. “Since when is he our uncle?”

“He married Aunt Lysa. It’s not important. They’re both dead now.”

Neither of them can hurt her.

“Tell me what it was like to be Lord Tywin’s cupbearer. You must have some good stories.”

“A few,” Arya says.

She sits down next to Sansa and they both pet Nymeria as Arya starts talking.

Later that night, after Arya has fallen asleep, Sansa slips out of bed to sit at Nymeria’s side.

“There’s a bad man coming,” Sansa whispers to their direwolf. “I don’t know when the Boltons will get here, but they will come. Ramsay is slippery, Lord Tywin won’t kill him. When he comes here, you’re going to kill him. He’s not going to hurt Arya, and he’s not going to hurt me. He won’t hurt anyone here. You’re going to protect us, right?”

Nymeria noses at Sansa’s hand before licking a wet warm stripe up her palm.

Sansa takes that as a yes. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sansa's traumatic past is particularly on her mind

Sansa knows there is nothing she can do about the Boltons just now, and anyway they are all the way in the Vale. It does not ease her worry or settle her stomach, tied up in knots of tension.

Tyrion tries to comfort her, but he naturally assumes she is mourning the loss of her aunt and cousin. He may not be entirely wrong; they are family, and they hadn’t hurt her yet, not in this lifetime. But they’re also dead, and all the worrying in the world won’t do them a bit of good.

She needs to reserve her worry for herself. She worries about the life she’s building here in Winterfell. She worries about the family she’s finding or making. She worries about winter encroaching from Beyond the Wall. And she worries the Boltons will come from below and Winterfell will be trapped between them. 

It’s why she perhaps isn’t thinking clearly when she returns to her rooms and finds Nymeria gone.

She’d excused herself from the midday meal, too preoccupied to properly enjoy it, but she rushes back down, because if anyone knows where Nymeria is, it’s Arya.

Her little sister is eating with her hands again, but she quickly picks up her fork when Sansa flies into the room, as if Sansa cares about silverware at a time like this.

“Where’s Nymeria?” Sansa demands.

Tyrion looks startled at her tone.

“With the hounds,” Arya says. “She’s better now. She -”

“With the hounds?” Sansa’s voice is rising, edging near hysterical, but she can’t bring it back down. 

She picks up her skirts and runs for the kennels. Nymeria doesn’t belong with the hounds, trapped and alone, down in the dark in a cage. 

The hounds bark when they hear a visitor, their noses pressing towards the doors of their cages and Sansa edges back, out of reach of any teeth.

These aren’t Ramsay’s hounds, she reminds herself. They don’t want to take a bite out of her, they want to lick her hello.

It doesn’t stop her from making herself as small as possible.

It doesn’t stop her from expecting to see Theon every time she looks in a cage.

She remembers when Myranda led her down here, fingers digging into Ramsay’s bruises. She’d seemed so normal, so sincere. Ramsay always had that mad grin that promised pain or humiliation, or both, but with Myranda there was no warning.

She’d dragged Sansa in front of a cage, and Sansa thought Myranda was going to shove her in, lock her in with the hounds that were howling for her blood. Ramsay probably would have approved. 

Instead, the mad girl had grabbed Sansa’s chin and forced her to look at Theon. He was wearing dirty, torn rags and looked like he hadn’t been allowed to wash for days. The cage smelled of urine and worse, and he’d gathered up all the straw in a corner to use as a bed. There wasn’t much of it and he had to curl into a tiny ball.

He whimpered when he saw them, and there was nothing human in his eyes.

Sansa remembers shaking in Myranda’s grip. She didn’t cry, though. Ramsay used up all her tears. It was not the first or the last time Myranda was cruel to Sansa. But fear of Ramsay eclipsed all. He’d done things to her she never even knew to be afraid of until after he’d done them.

“Lady Sansa. Lady Sansa!”

She snaps out of the memory, breathing hard, her fingers curled around the iron of Nymeria’s cage.

She looks over to see her husband hovering by her side, worried. Arya is next to him, Podrick, too. Farlen’s standing behind all of them, and there’s fear in his eyes.

For her?

Of her?

“I -” Sansa stands up. She needs to be composed. She can’t explain what’s wrong so there must be nothing wrong. “Apologies. I don’t want Nymeria locked up. A direwolf should be free.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says, wary, like he’s expecting some sort of outburst.

“Her bed is still in my room,” Sansa says. “She’ll stay with me. She doesn’t belong here. These -” Sansa gets an idea. “These are the hounds that hunted down my brothers. I don’t want Nymeria near them.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says again. “We’ll get her back to your rooms right away.”

Sansa nods. Good. She’s getting what she wants. No one has any reason to suspect her.

“Do you-” Farlen frowns. “Do you want the hounds killed? For your brothers?”

Sansa shakes her head. “They aren’t responsible. They only did as their master commanded them.  _ He _ is the one I want.”

She doesn’t know if she’ll get Theon. Maybe Lord Tywin’s men will kill him when they take the Eyrie. If they do, Sansa is going on a trip, and she’s going to step across every body until she finds Theon’s. Until she finds Ramsay’s. And if she cannot find them, either of them, she will scour the entire world until she does.

“Come rest,” Tyrion suggests, holding his hand out. “It’s been a long day.”

She takes the offered hand. “I want Nymeria to come with us.”

Tyrion motions to Farlen, and the man unlocks Nymeria’s cage. She shoulders the door open the moment the bar ratchets back and plasters herself to Sansa’s side. 

“There,” Tyrion says. “Now we can go to your chambers. Podrick will have something hot for you to drink when we get there.”

“They locked up Robb’s direwolf,” Arya says as she follows them to Sansa’s chambers. “Shot him full of arrows after they killed Robb.”

“You’re not helping,” Tyrion says, and Sansa doesn’t think she’s heard Tyrion get cross with her sister before.

“Just saying, maybe direwolves shouldn’t be locked up. They can’t protect people that way.”

“Lady was chained up when Father killed her,” Sansa adds.

Tyrion glares at Arya like it’s her fault Sansa’s now talking about death, too. “Get her the rest of her way to your chambers. I’m going to get Eddard, and we’re going to have a nice afternoon tea with no talk of death or killing.”

“Boring,” Arya says, but she takes Sansa’s hand when Tyrion lets it go and they continue down the hall.

~*~

Aside from a few looks that linger too long, Sansa thinks everyone’s forgotten or moved past the incident in the kennels. She’s pretty sure Farlen asked Wynn for her schedule, because she hasn’t seen a hound since Nymeria returned to her chambers.

She and Tyrion are in the Great Hall, listening to routine petitions when a boy steps forward. There’s nothing remarkable about him, except his tunic bears a sigil of four chains linked by a central ring.

“You’re from House Umber,” Sansa says.

The boy, Sansa thinks he might be near her age but he still looks like a  _ boy _ while she feels so much older, smiles. “Yes, my lady. I am Heron, squire to Ser Greatjon, Lord of Last Hearth.”

“Welcome, Heron,” Sansa says. “House Umber has been one of those most loyal to the Starks throughout the years. I hope your lord is well?”

“He is,” Heron answers. “Though he invites you to come see for yourself.”

“He does?” Sansa asks. This isn’t what she expected. Most people who bring forth petitions have problems they expect Sansa and Tyrion to solve. They don’t… extend invitations.

“Yes. He hopes you don’t think he’s slighted you by delaying the invitation, but he wanted to make sure you were settled enough in Winterfell to feel comfortable leaving it for a short visit.”

“That’s very kind of him,” Sansa says, “but the settling period is not yet over, and I need to consider this invitation carefully. I will give you an answer tomorrow morning. Tonight, you may stay here, and we’ll make sure you’re well fed and refreshed for your trip back.”

Heron bows. “Thank you, my lady.”

Tyrion leans in as Heron backs out of the room. “We’ll discuss it at dinner?”

“Yes,” Sansa whispers back, and they turn their attention to the next petitioner.

~*~

Wynn has just finished brushing Sansa’s hair out for dinner when Nora comes in, Eddard in her arms.

“Apologies, my lady,” she says, “but he won’t settle. Perhaps your presence will calm him.”

“Bring him here,” she says. “Arya, Wynn, you go down to dinner. I’ll join you shortly.”

Eddard does not seem unsettled. He coos at her, tugs on her braid, and offers up a gummy smile.

“He seems fine,” Sansa says.

“He is,” Nora says, “but I needed to delay you. Come with me.”

Sansa frowns, but she has known Nora her whole life. She trusts her as much as she trusts anyone. She follows. 

Nymeria pads along behind them, having taken to following Sansa around since the incident in the kennels as if she thinks Sansa is the only thing keeping her out of a cage. Or perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Sansa is the one to take Nymeria hunting every few days, when Sansa decides could use a ride on her horse.

Nora leads her to an unused room, and Sansa’s suspicions grow when she sees candles already lit. And then she sees Heron, the squire, and Sansa takes a step back towards the door.

“I’m not here to harm you,” Heron promises, holding his hands out like he’s soothing a spooked horse. “I needed to talk to you. Away from...certain ears.”

Sansa looks back at Nora.

“It’s alright,” Nora promises.

Sansa snaps her fingers and Nymeria sits at her side. “What do you have to tell me you couldn’t tell me in front of others?”

“My lord requests that you come alone,” Heron says.

Nora shakes her head. “You’re an idiot, boy.”

“Lord Greatjon wants me to visit his lands without an escort?” Sansa asks. “He wants me to ride near the Wall, near where wildlings have been sighted with no one to protect me? Does your lord want me dead?”

“What? No!” The boy seems to realize he misspoke. “I only meant without your husband, my lady. He wants to speak with you as a Stark, not a Lannister.”

“I’m both now,” Sansa says. “Why the need to separate my husband and I? Who are you planning to kill? Me or him? You won’t succeed with either.”

Heron’s face has lost all color. “My lady. It’s not - I -” his eyes plead with Nora to help.

“The boy is an idiot,” Nora repeats, “but he isn’t a conspirer. The Umbers have something to show you.  _ You _ , not your husband.”

“Lord Tyrion -”

“Is a Lannister first,” Nora says. “You’re a Lannister, aye, but by marriage. First you’re a Stark. You don’t have to take the boy’s suggestion, I know you don’t have a lot of reason to trust people, but they won’t show you if you don’t.”

“I’m guessing you won’t tell me what you have to show me or let me tell my husband why I must go alone.” Sansa shifts Eddard to the other arm. “In the Great Hall today, I said that the Umbers were the most loyal of our supporters. I pray that’s still true.”

“You’ll come?” Heron asks.

“Yes,” Sansa answers. “And I’ll do my best to come without my husband. But I’m bringing Nymeria. Did you know that she attacked Prince Joffrey once?” Sansa makes sure to catch Heron’s eye. “She’ll attack princes to protect this family. I want you to think on that on your ride back to Last Hearth tomorrow.”

Heron visibly swallows. “Yes, my lady.”

“You’re dismissed,” Sansa says.

He scurries out and Sansa turns to her servant, gaze assessing. “You think his family means me no harm?”

“You’ll be safe,” she promises.

“And my husband?” Sansa asks, because Nora was right; Sansa finds it difficult to trust these days. “No one will harm him while I’m gone?”

“He’s a good man,” Nora says. “A good lord for all that he’s a Lannister. Winterfell won’t harm him.”

“Fine,” Sansa says. That’s as much a guarantee as she can expect to get. She hands Eddard over. “I’m going down to dinner. I have to convince my husband to let me ride north on my own.”

~*~

In the end, it isn’t very difficult for Sansa to get Tyrion to do what she wants.

She waits until they’re mostly done to say, “The Umber invitation,” a little surprised she was able to bring it up before Tyrion did. Maybe he was waiting on her.

“Yes,” Tyrion says.

“I should go,” Sansa says, before he can start talking. He has a way of making whatever his position is seem reasonable, and she needs to make her position clear first.

“Yes,” Tyrion repeats. “We can probably leave within the week.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I should go alone.”

Arya stops drawing faces in her potatoes.

“I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” Tyrion says.

“Winterfell isn’t secure,” Sansa says. “She’s not ready for us both to be gone. We don’t know if the Boltons are sending scouts this far up or if they’re content in the Eyrie. We don’t know if Walder Frey has been biding his time before making a move or if he’s going to stay holed up in his castle forever. And that’s not even getting to the rumors of the Greyjoys’ movements.”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t go anywhere alone,” Tyrion says. “Don’t forget, I know my northern geography. The Last Hearth is too close to the Wall for my comfort. Perhaps we should both stay. Why can’t Lord Greatjon come to us?”

“Because wildlings are raiding towns near his castle? We have so few allies here, we need to make sure we shore up those we do have. We need men we can call on if we need to fight. We need the Umbers. I have to go to them.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Sansa says. “But it must be done. And, I like this even less, but you need to stay. Not just for stability, but because I don’t want Eddard going north, and he needs one of his parents with him.”

The fight goes out of her husband in an instant, and Sansa feels a moment of regret for manipulating him like this. And if something bad comes about because of the decisions she’s making, she’ll feel much more regret. But this must be done.

“You don’t think his mother should stay with him?” Tyrion asks.

“The Umbers don’t trust you,” Sansa says. “They do trust me. I’ll bring Ser Sandor with me and any other men you think I need for protection.”

“You should bring Nymeria,” Arya pipes up.

“I couldn’t,” Sansa says. “She’s your direwolf.”

“I’ve got Needle,” Arya says. “And nobody here’s going to hurt me. Maybe you’ll see a bear on your ride. A hungry bear, because it’s winter. I think Nymeria’d like to eat a bear.”

“I hope you won’t see any bears,” Tyrion says. “Even if Nymeria would enjoy it.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sansa promises. “I’ll be home before you realize I’m gone.”

~*~

There are no bandit or wildling attacks on her ride to Last Hearth, and no bears either. No one ambushes them, and nothing bad happens.

But Sansa wouldn’t describe herself as ‘fine’ during the trip.

The constant motion of the horse seems to compound her anxiety, and she routinely has to empty the contents of her stomach during the course of the trip. She stops dismounting each time, choosing to lean over and throw up into the snow.

The men that come with them stop riding directly behind her.

It’s a strange sickness, because it passes by midday, and she eats until she’s ready to burst in the evening, then goes hungry all morning. It’s a vexing cycle.

“This is worse than the boat,” Ser Sandor says.

“I will have my sister stab you when we return,” Sansa threatens, and Ser Sandor just laughs. 

It’s a relief to see Last Hearth rising up before them on the horizon, and even more of a relief to enter it. 

Lord Greatjon meets them inside the castle, and he offers Sansa a hand off her horse.

“Thank you,” Sansa says, glad to have solid ground under her feet. 

“You have only grown more beautiful,” he tells her.

Sansa, weary after a long journey and not feeling at all pretty, forces herself to smile. She probably smells terrible. “Thank you, my lord. I’m glad to see you well. Our friends in the North grow fewer and fewer.”

His smile dims. “You’ll always have friends here. We have chambers set aside for you. Would you like to rest and freshen up before dinner?”

“Thank you,” Sansa says. “Do you have a spare blanket somewhere so I can make a bed for Nymeria in my room?” She pats Nymeria’s head. “I’m afraid she doesn’t like to be parted from me.”

Lord Greatjon whistles. “I’d heard you had direwolves, but seeing it is something else. I’ll make sure she’s as comfortable as you are.”

“Thank you.”

~*~

Sansa has the time to take a bath before dinner and while she doesn’t to soak as long as her tired muscles might like, being clean goes a long way to improving her mood. 

“It’s good to see you smile again,” Wynn says, as she helps Sansa into one of her more formal gowns. 

Sansa hasn’t gotten this dressed up since King’s Landing. It feels a little strange. 

“Have I been that unhappy?” Sansa asks.

“It’s good to see you smile again,” Wynn repeats, and there’s a hint of a smile on her face as she says it.

“I’m not very good at being sick, I’m afraid,” Sansa says. “I’ll try to be better.”

“It wasn’t censure,” Wynn tells her.

“I still don’t know why they want me here,” Sansa says. “I can’t afford to show weakness.”

Once her dress is on, she sits down so Wynn can style her hair. She wonders if she can get away with bringing Nymeria to dinner. Probably not. She wishes Tyrion was here.

It’s not a thought she ever thought she’d have. She wants Tyrion at her side. She doesn’t think he’d be much help if a fight broke out, but he would know if a fight was what the Umbers intended, and he’d keep the fight from happening. He would know what they wanted and how much of it to give them. He’d know what would be best for Winterfell and how to get it. 

He -

She would feel safer with his hand in hers.

When Wynn is done, Sansa looks at herself in the the looking glass. With her hair pulled back the way it is, just the top pinned back, the rest hanging down loose, she looks like her mother. True, her hair is a brighter red, and she doesn’t look quite so tired, quite so beatdown as the last time Sansa saw her mother, but there is a resemblance. 

Sansa stands taller, holds her head high and for a moment lets herself believe it’s her mother looking back at her. 

She clears her throat. “I suppose it would be rude to keep our hosts waiting.”

When they open the door, Heron is slumped against the wall. He scrambles to his feet, dusting off his breeches.

“Uh, evening,” he says. He bows to Sansa and then Wynn. It reminds Sansa of herself before she’d been to the capital the first time, sheltered and ignorant of so many things. 

“Relax,” Sansa tells him. “I won’t scold you for being tired.”

“Ser Greatjon says I’ll never be a good squire if I can’t build up my endurance. But there’s not a whole lot to do around here. That was a long trip to Winterfell. But not too long! And I was a little afraid of the wildlings. But it wasn’t too bad.”

“Have there been a lot of wildling attacks?” Sansa asks, careful to keep the question light.

“A couple. I guess some of the nearby villages have been raided. Ser Greatjon’s ridden out to fight them, but they’re cowards and don’t stick around for a fair fight. Won’t come anywhere near the castle, so you needn’t worry. And if they did come up here, we’d protect you.”

They enter the dining room at the tail end of the conversation, and Ser Greatjon narrows his eyes at his squire. 

“You don’t need to scare the women,” he says, pulling Sansa’s chair out for her. “Please pardon my squire. He’s still learning. There’s nothing for you to fear while you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says as she takes her seat. She’s not sure she believes him yet. “Everyone in the North knows the Umbers are great warriors. If the wildlings dare come here, you’ll turn them back.”

“They don’t go anywhere they know they’ll face a challenge,” Ser Greatjon says. “But, dinner is not the place for such talk. I hear congratulations are in order for you. You’ve married and had a son, and we weren’t able to attend the wedding or the naming.”

“Attending the wedding would’ve been complicated,” Sansa says, “and we kept the naming private. Perhaps for our next child we’ll be able to invite our friends.”

“You’re expecting more?” This news seems to surprise Ser Greatjon.

“Not imminently,” she says, “but it’s a wife’s duty to give her husband children.” She looks down at her plate. “And...I have fond memories of Winterfell being full of happy children. I want it to be that way again.”

“A noble goal,” Ser Greatjon says.

His heir, called Smalljon though he is hardly small any longer, scoffs. “I heard you’re married to the Imp. Why would you want to have more children with  _ him _ ?”

Sansa expects Ser Greatjon to scold his son, but he’s watching her instead, curiosity winning out over manners. 

“My  _ husband _ ,” Sansa stresses, “is someone I have come to trust and admire.” She looks over at Smalljon, who is a few years older than Robb would’ve been if he was still alive, and she has a bad feeling about this visit. “If you sent for me to test my loyalty to my husband, to make me an offer you think I’ll enjoy more, than I will tell you now, you should let me pack up and return home.”

“Loyalty to Lannisters,” Ser Greatjon says, and Sansa can’t read how he feels about that, but it can’t be anything good. 

“The Lannisters have returned Winterfell to me; without Lord Tyrion, I could not have come home.”

“You should be with one of your own.”

Sansa can’t help her laugh. “Let’s play your game, Ser Greatjon. I manage to escape King’s Landing under the nose of King Joffrey, who kept his eye on me so he knew exactly where to look when he needed someone to torment. I manage to escape Lord Tywin Lannister, who understood that I was the key to the North and guarded me like the Crown jewels. Say this impossible task is completed, and I ride North from the capital.”

Ser Greatjon shifts in his chair, perhaps growing uncomfortable, but Sansa presses forward. “I cross into the North and my first option is the Eyrie. I had an aunt there, and a cousin that I could marry for security. But my aunt had married Petyr Baelish, a slippery capital man who would sell me back to King’s Landing in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t have had the Eyrie if it weren’t for the Lannisters, and he wouldn’t risk betraying them.

“No Eyrie then. The next place I would come across is the Twins. Do you think Ser Walder Frey would welcome me with open arms? Perhaps, but he would stab me in the back as he embraced me. I would continue traveling North, on the Kingsroad where anyone could find me, or hugging Ironman’s Bay where the Greyjoys might snatch me up. They already burned two of my brothers alive, what would they do to me?”

Ser Greatjon is certainly uncomfortable now.

“Maybe I made it to Winterfell,” Sansa says. “But Winterfell was a shell and I would have no one but elderly servants to protect me. The Boltons were marching that way. Maybe they would see me as an easier target than the Eyrie. Certainly closer to the Dreadfort. And Roose has a bastard, yes? A marriage between us, and  _ he  _ could have the North.

“You say the Umbers are still our friends, though I have yet to be convinced of that. I never could’ve reached Last Hearth on my own, not with the Lannisters tracking me down, the threat of wildlings and hillmen, and the Northern Houses that don’t remember their pledge to my father. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for my husband.”

Ser Greatjon is quiet for a long moment, dinner all but forgotten. “You are quite knowledgeable on the state of the North.”

Sansa laughs. “You thought I would come here knowing nothing? I have seen my mother rule Winterfell in my father’s absence, I know that women are as capable as men. And I was not going to ride North unprepared. Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion both informed me of my brother and mother’s deaths. And even if they hadn’t, word would’ve spread quickly through the castle. And on King Joffrey’s wedding day, at his feast, he arranged for a play that depicted the gruesome betrayal. No one in King’s Landing ever let me forget what was happening to my family while I was kept prisoner.”

“Once a prisoner, now a wife; and that changes everything?” Ser Greatjon asks.

Sansa decides speaking plainly is the only way to get her point across. “I married Tyrion Lannister. It wasn’t my first choice, but it was my best choice. When King Joffrey, Tyrion’s nephew, died, I shed no tears. If Cersei Lannister, now Tyrell, died, I would shed no tears for her, either. But Tyrion is my husband. He is  _ mine _ , and I will fight anyone who means to do him harm.”

Sansa stands up. “Furthermore, whatever you have brought me here to share with me, whatever secrets you keep, I will not keep for you. My husband is my partner, my ally, and he is my friend. Anything you tell me, I will tell him the moment I ride through Winterfell’s gates. I apologize for wasting your time.”

She throws her napkin down onto her plate. The men won’t like being forced to get immediately back on the road again, but they’re Lannister men. If they choose not to obey her then they’ll probably be dead by morning.

“Wait,” Ser Greatjon says, and Sansa tenses, expecting to hear a blade being drawn. She shouldn’t have left Nymeria upstairs. “It is I who should apologize, my lady.”

Sansa cautiously looks over at him. He does look genuinely contrite, and no one is reaching for their weapons. She still stays standing.

“I did bring you here to test your loyalty,” Ser Greatjon says. “When you arrived back at Winterfell as Lady Lannister, I didn’t know whether to expect a lion or a wolf in lion’s garb.”

“I am neither,” Sansa says. “I am a wolf, and I always will be.”

“I see that,” Ser Greatjon tells her. “Your dedication to your husband is odd to me, I must admit, but your true dedication is to Winterfell. You are a Northerner, and I will share with you now why we brought you here.”

It must be some sort of code, because the doors to her left open, and a woman with long brown hair and dressed in a simple servant’s shift appears, ushering a child through.

“It’s okay, little lord,” the servant says. “This is Lady Sansa. Do you remember her?”

The boy looks up, and Sansa swears her heart stops beating. He’s bigger than he remembers, and his curls are fully out of control, but she would recognize that face anywhere.

“Rickon?” she gasps. Theon was telling the truth? He burned two other boys? “Rickon?”

She rushes forward and that’s all he needs to rush towards her, and they meet in the middle of the room, Sansa falling to her knees so she can gather him up in her arms. Rickon. Dear, sweet Rickon. Who used to help Arya catch frogs to put in Sansa’s bed. Who would use Robb and Jon and Theon as climbing posts, scurrying up onto their shoulders so he could see what tall people see.

She’d thought he would never get to grow tall.

But he will.

“My dear, sweet brother,” she says. There are tears in her eyes, and she lets them fall into his hair. “I thought you were dead.”

“Osha helped us escape,” Rickon says. He twists to look back at the servant in the doorway. “She and Hodor and me and Bran. We got away.”

And - Sansa had forgotten about Bran. “Is he here too?”

Rickon’s eyes grow sad and he looks at the floor. “He’s gone north. Beyond the Wall. He wouldn’t take me with him.”

“Beyond the Wall?”

“A story for another time,” Osha says.

“Yes,” Sansa says. She hugs her brother again. “You have no idea how glad I am to have you in my arms again. Did you know that I’ve found Arya as well? She’s at Winterfell.”

“Arya?” Rickon’s face lights up. “With you and Arya and me, we’ll be like a family again.”

“Yes,” Sansa promises him, brushing his hair from his face. “And we’ll find Bran and bring him home. There will be Starks in Winterfell again.”

“Can I bring Shaggydog with me?” Rickon asks. “He’s been a good wolf. Protected me all this time.”

“Of course,” Sansa says. “We’ve found Nymeria, and she could use a friend. She’s here, you know. I brought her to Last Hearth with me. Arya insisted.”

“Arya.” Rickon’s smile fades. “How did you escape the capital? Ser Greatjon told me about… about mother and Robb. I know they didn’t save you.”

“A story for another time,” Sansa promises. “All you need to know is that we’re safe, and we’re going to be a family again.”

“Good,” Rickon says. “Can we bring Osha with us?”

Sansa looks over at the servant, still in the doorway. 

“She’s a wildling,” Rickon says, and misses the way Sansa tenses. “Robb saved her life when Theon wanted her dead. She’s been protecting us ever since. Theon - he -” Rickon’s face crumples again.

“I know,” Sansa says. She cradles her brother close. “What he did will never be forgiven or forgotten. And as long as your Osha would like to come with us, she may.”

“I have a choice?” Osha asks, looking amused for some reason.

Sansa squares her shoulders as best she can while still comforting her brother. “You have kept my brother safe and for that I owe you. If you wish to return to your home, I won’t stop you.”

Here, Osha’s smile slips, unable to hide her shudder. “I ain’t goin’ back there. You don’t know what’s comin’ for you.”

Winter, Sansa thinks. She remembers Melisandre’s warning, and she hopes she isn’t too late to do something about it. But the can’t do anything Beyond the Wall until she has the North under control. The last things she wants is to be stuck between Winter and the betrayers. 

“There will be a place in Winterfell for you then,” Sansa promises. 

“Now then,” Ser Greatjon says, and Sansa startles. She’d forgotten there were other people in the room. “I think we’ve interrupted our dinner enough. Shall we return to it?”

Rickon is quick to climb out of Sansa’s lap, but he grabs her hand and makes sure he’s sitting next to her when they resume the meal. 

~*~

Sansa agrees to stay at Last Hearth a few more days, because she and her men could use the rest and because Rickon wants to show off everything he’s been doing here.

She’s in the practice yards watching him spar with the master-at-arms, clumsy with his sword but able to deflect each blow that comes his way.

“He lacks a proper offense,” Ser Greatjon says, standing next to Sansa at the fence. “It’s something we’ve tried to work on, but he’s resistant.”

“He would rather defend than attack,” Sansa agrees.

“Eventually even the strongest of defenses will be worn down.”

Sansa has had enough of dramatics, even if they have restored Rickon to her. “Speak plainly.”

“I’m wondering if it’s safe for him to return to Winterfell.” Ser Greatjon quickly holds up a hand. “I don’t wish to unleash your tongue on me again, my lady. I simply want you to consider what I have to say. You are Wardenness of the North, but Rickon is Lord Stark, at least until Bran returns from beyond the Wall. He has a stronger claim to Winterfell than your child.”

Sansa doesn’t raise her voice, but she doesn’t like the implications. “Are you implying my beloved brother will be in danger in his own home? I would never harm him, and I would never let my husband harm him, either. Not that he would. Rickon is my blood, and there few enough Starks remaining.”

“I don’t think the danger comes from you, my lady,” Ser Greatjon says, and Sansa doesn’t think he’s being entirely truthful, but she wants to hear his argument. “But the Karstarks have a daughter, Alys, and they have a grudge against your family and against the Lannisters. They won’t welcome you and your husband.”

And if Sansa was the key to the North when her brothers were dead, then certainly Rickon is the stronger key to the North now. “I will not let the Karstarks have him.”

“I don’t doubt that you want your brother safe. I’m simply suggesting that maybe he should stay here awhile longer. No one knows he’s alive. No one would come looking for him here.”

Sansa shakes her head. Ser Greatjon is right, Rickon does present a threat to Eddard’s position as Lord of Winterfell, but Sansa will not abandon him to strangers. She doesn’t trust the Umbers enough not to make a deal with the Karstarks. Rickon will be kept safe with her while she and Tyrion figure out what to do with him.

He must be married, must be sent away from Winterfell, as much as it breaks Sansa’s heart to think of. But she won’t be safe as long as he’s there, and he won’t be safe as long as people think he can be used as a pawn. 

“Rickon returns with me,” Sansa says. “I thank you for watching him as diligently as you have, but the Starks belong in Winterfell.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Rickon succeeds in driving the master-at-arms back and then he falters the moment defense begins to look like offense. He’s on his back in the snow in an instant, a practice sword at his throat.

Sansa closes her eyes and feels a headache coming on.

~*~

She’s just as ill on her trip home from Last Hearth as the trip there, and she chalks it up to now having added Rickon to her list of worries. She’s going to have to send him away to protect him, and she doesn’t want to do it. Arya will hate her for it. Rickon will hate her for it. She’ll hate herself for it. But she understands that it needs to be done.

She’s vomiting into fresh fallen snow when the horse carrying Osha and Rickon pulls up on the other side of her.

“You okay?” Rickon asks. “We can go back to Last Hearth until you feel better. We don’t need to rush.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I want to be home. And the sickness will go away.”

It’s not serious. She won’t let it be.

“That so,” Osha says skeptically.

“It’s just in the mornings,” Sansa says. “And all this riding makes it worse. It’ll pass.”

“Ah,” Osha says. “When was the last time you bled?”

The entire party comes to a halt. Sansa can feel all of their eyes on her, and she wants to snap at them for being rude but -

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Sansa touches a hand to her stomach. Again? She hasn’t been compulsively tracking her bleeding like she had in King’s Landing, but she can’t recall the last time she bled. She’s not coming down with some kind of disease, she has  _ morning sickness _ .

“It wasn’t this bad last time,” Sansa says.

“You had a boy then, didn’t you?” Osha asks. “Girls cause the sickness, boys just hurt your back. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Well,” Sansa says, a smile spreading across her face. A little girl. “Let’s get back to Winterfell and tell my husband the good news.”

~*~

The moment they pass through the gates of Winterfell, Arya rushes the horses.

Sansa sent word that they were bringing people back with them from Last Hearth, Shaggydog and his friend. Arya would know what it meant, and Osha doesn’t hand Rickon down from his horse so much as Arya yanks him.

“I’m going to need a second direwolf bed in my room,” Sansa tells Hullen as he helps her down from her horse. She doubts Rickon will sleep in his own room, especially once he realizes Arya hasn’t left Sansa’s since she came back to Winterfell.

“Of course, my lady,” Hullen says. He continues to hold her hand even after she’s on the ground. “I’m glad you brought him home.”

“Me too,” Sansa says.

Her husband is the next person to approach her, everyone else preoccupied with Rickon, and Sansa bends to hug him, both because she has missed him and because it allows her to whisper, “We need to talk.”

“We do,” Tyrion agrees, and Sansa hopes he isn’t cross with her. She couldn’t leave Rickon with the Umbers. She couldn’t.

She straightens, but takes his hand in his. “I have happy news,” she says, loud enough for others to overhear.

“Happier than this?” Tyrion asks, motioning to Arya and Rickon’s reunion.

Sansa takes her husband’s hand and presses it to her stomach. “I’ve brought two children home to Winterfell.”

Tyrion’s mouth parts, awe in his eyes, and his hand grows even gentler on her stomach. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Sansa tells him.

“What’s our lord going to do with two babes in the house,” Nora says, coming over with little Eddard, wrapped in furs. 

“Hmm?” Sansa asks.

Nora spares a mischievous look at Tyrion before answering. “Your husband was almost never seen without Eddard while you were gone. How’s he going to manage to divide his attention between two children?”

Sansa looks down at her husband, smile tugging at her lips.

“He was missing his mother,” Tyrion defends, “I didn’t want him to miss his father as well.”

“Of course,” Sansa says. “Well, my lord husband, Osha tells me you should begin to think of girl names.”

“Osha?”

The wildling woman approaches them. “At your service, m’lord.”

“She’s the one who saved my brothers after Theon’s treachery,” Sansa explains.

“He was a prick,” Osha agrees.

Tyrion barks out a laugh. “Yes, I’m sure he was. I told Gage to prepare a feast in honor of your homecoming, but it looks like there will be more at the table than I was expecting.”

Tyrion’s been working with Gage while Sansa’s been gone? The servants of Winterfell had been cold to him when he first arrived, and that they’re beginning to thaw is a good sign. Sansa needs to be able to trust the people inside her own home, because she certainly cannot trust those outside of it.

“He has a habit of over preparing,” Sansa says. “There’ll be enough.”

“Not if your brother eats like your sister does,” Tyrion says, but he says it in jest, and Sansa can’t help but laugh.

It’s good to be home.

~*~

There is indeed an overabundance of food when Sansa, Tyrion, Arya, and Rickon sit down to eat. Sansa makes a note to allow Podrick, Wynn, and Osha their fill of the feast before opening it up to the other servants of the house. 

They still have to use the small table, because there’s only four of them, but the table looks fuller, and Sansa can’t help but think that they feel like a family.

Even Nymeria has someone to share her dinner with. She and Shaggydog are sitting faithfully at Arya’s side, which means Sansa’s sister has most definitely been slipping them scraps. Sansa doesn’t have it in her heart to scold her. 

“So,” Arya says once she’s curbed her initial hunger. “I’ll tell you about my adventures if you tell me about yours.”

“It’s not a happy story,” Rickon says.

Arya shrugs. “Bet some interesting things happened, though.”

“Arya,” Sansa says, because she is willing to scold her sister over this. “Rickon, you don’t have to tell if you don’t want to. But I want you to remember that you’re home now. No matter how difficult things were, your story has a happy ending.”

Rickon gives her a small smile. “Bran was the Lord of Winterfell after Robb left. Being Lord is boring, but Bran made me sit and watch anyways. Things were okay until Theon came. He promised not to hurt anyone if Bran named him Lord of Winterfell.” Rickon pokes at his food. “He lied.”

Sansa wants to tell Rickon he doesn’t have to keep talking, but there are a lot of questions she has, questions only he can answer. When he’s done, she’ll swear vengeance on Theon until Rickon’s smile returns.

“He killed Ser Rodrik. It was - it was cruel. Not like Father when he had to kill people.”

“Theon is a cruel boy,” Sansa says.

Rickon nods. “He said he wasn’t going to hurt us, but Osha didn’t believe him. She and Hodor helped me and Bran escape. We were going to go to the Wall. To Jon. We were going to be safe there. But then we found friends. They were different. And that’s when Bran said we couldn’t go with him. He was going somewhere too dangerous. I didn’t want him to leave me.”

Big tears grow in Rickon’s eyes. “But he did. He and Hodor and the other two. They left and Osha took me to Ser Greatjon.” Rickon shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” Sansa promises.

“What’s Bran doing Beyond the Wall?” Arya asks. “It’s just a bunch of ice up there. And wildlings.”

Rickon won’t look up from his dinner plate, but Sansa sees the way Osha shifts, uncomfortable, where she stands against the wall.

“You know,” Sansa says. “You know why my brother went.”

Osha freezes. “I -” she shakes her head, “You won’t believe it, m’lady. I don’t want to believe it.”

“Tell us anyways,” Arya demands. “I want to hear a  _ good _ story.”

“Please,” Sansa says. “I want to know if Bran is alive.”

Osha shakes her head but talks anyways. “Your brother’s got magic. Just like the boy we met on the road. He can see what a direwolf sees. Has dreams. He’s following one of his dreams Beyond the Wall. That’s all I know. I swear.”

“Magic?” Arya asks.

“You didn’t all stay together,” Tyrion says. “I would’ve thought that would be safer.”

“I came from Beyond the Wall,” Osha says. “I’m never going back. Not even the little lord could make me. So when he decided Rickon needed to be safe, I volunteered to take him.”

Sansa can see the fear in Osha’s eyes when she talks about Beyond the Wall. She hopes Arya doesn’t say anything insensitive.

“What’s out there that you fear?” Tyrion asks.

“You won’t believe me,” Osha tells him.

“I’ve been to the Wall,” Tyrion says. “I’ve seen things I wouldn’t have believed before.”

“Death marches on the Wall,” Osha says, voice low, “and I ain’t going to be anywhere near it when it comes.”

Sansa finds her appetite gone.

“We should write to the Night’s Watch,” Tyrion says. “Find out how soon the threat is upon them.”

“You believe her?” Arya scoffs. “It’s just like Mother and Father always said:  _ winter is coming _ . But when? And what is winter anyway?”

“I pray you never know,” Tyrion says. He nods at Osha. “I believe you. I’ve heard rumors of what comes our way, and none of it’s good.”

“And Bran’s out there?” Sansa asks. Bran who doesn’t have the use of his legs. Bran who just has Hodor and two strangers to protect him? “When we write the Watch, do you think they could spare the men to look for him?”

“The little lord doesn’t want to be found,” Osha says. “He thinks he’s on a mission from the gods.”

Sansa’s stomach is sick and this time, it isn’t from the baby. 

~*~

Sansa settles her brother and sister in her bed and promises to be back before going to Tyrion’s chambers. There are some things they need to discuss without anyone else hearing, and this is the only time they can do that.

“Sansa,” Tyrion says, surprised when she opens the door.

He’s down to his nightclothes, but he has a thick fur cloak on to ward off the chill. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“I can’t stay long,” Sansa says, “Rickon wants me back, but there are a few things we need to discuss. Just the two of us.”

“Yes, of course.” 

He sits down at his desk and she pulls a chair around to sit next to him. 

“Ser Greatjon offered to keep Rickon there in secret, but I couldn’t let that happen,” she says, words coming out in a rush. “Once I saw him, once I knew he was there, I couldn’t leave without him.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Tyrion promises.

“But it’s not safe for him to stay here,” Sansa continues. “The Karstarks have a daughter they’ll want to marry him to her so they can claim Winterfell and the North. We can’t let that happen. But I won’t let anyone hurt my brother.”

Not even Lord Tywin, goes unspoken. Not even you.

“We’ll have to find a suitable marriage quickly to keep him safe,” Tyrion says. “He won’t be able to stay at Winterfell for long.”

“I know,” Sansa says, and she already misses him. “But our children aren’t safe if he’s here. The North isn’t safe if he’s here.  _ He _ isn’t safe if he’s here. He can’t stay. Even if I want him to.”

“Cersei’s given birth to a girl, but I wouldn’t send your brother to her,” Tyrion says. “Perhaps we can pledge him to Jaime’s future child and send him to Casterly Rock. Or one of the Frey girls when we take the Twins.”

“He can’t stay in the North,” Sansa says. “It’s too dangerous. And Ser Jaime isn’t even betrothed yet, it could be years before there are any children.”

“I’ll look into it,” Tyrion promises. “Speaking of marriages, while you were gone, I got news on your sister.”

“Oh?” Sansa asks.

“Not only has father arranged for her to be engaged to his own grandson, but he’s having him delivered here, to us. He’s probably already on his way.”

“Lord Tywin is sending Tommen away from King’s Landing?” Sansa asks.

“Apparently we’re not the only ones who recognize threats to heirs,” Tyrion says. “And Cersei isn’t there to stop him. It will be a good match. They’re close in age if not in temperament. And father didn’t mention this, but I would be surprised if he doesn’t mean for the Eyrie to be their home once he’s conquered it. It was held by a relative of yours before the Boltons claimed it.”

“True,” Sansa says. And if that comes to pass, how soon until she loses both Arya and Rickon? She knows they can’t stay in Winterfell together forever, but she’ll miss them. At least Arya will enjoy the Eyrie. It’s full of mountains for her to climb and a sea to explore. She’ll never be bored there. And Tommen isn’t cruel like his brother. “It is a good match. I’m sure she’ll pitch a fit.”

“I’ve left you the honor of breaking the news to her,” Tyrion says.

Sansa laughs. “A great honor, I’m sure. If only Margaery had a daughter. Then Rickon could marry her.”

“And become King?” Tyrion shakes his head. “You wouldn’t want that for him. I’ll write to my father agreeing to the betrothal, even though he doesn’t think he needs our approval, and I’ll tell him of Rickon. We will find a solution. I promise.”

“Everything was coming together so smoothly,” she says. “I know this is a great complication.”

“Your brother is alive,” he says. “This is a good thing.” A shadow crosses his face. “We should all be so lucky.”

Has something happened to Ser Jaime? Sansa is content to dislike him from afar, and imagine Brienne haranguing him all day; she doesn’t wish him harm. 

“Oh, my brother is as fine as he ever is,” Tyrion assures her, reading her distress easily. “Two of my young cousins were taken prisoner by your brother’s army. When we didn’t hear anything in the chaos surrounding its… dissolution, we prepared ourselves for the worst.” He shrugs. “It’s a comfort, of a sort, to finally have confirmation.”

Sansa is horrified. She hadn’t known about this, had heard nothing even in her previous life. Robb’s army… she can’t bear to think that he would have sanctioned something like that. He would never. But it must have been one of the Northern bannermen, someone she looks on as a future ally. “But… who? How?”

“I don’t know yet,” Tyrion says. “And I don’t know that I care to. It was a monstrous thing, but that does not make bringing the North under one banner any less necessary. Revenge is not a luxury I can afford just now.”

Sansa can’t really understand that; she will hunt Ramsay Bolton to the ends of the earth if she has to. But she and her husband are different people, have different strengths. His practical way of looking at things has helped him adapt to the North, even thrive. She will respect his wishes. “I’m sorry,” she says lamely.

“Thank you,” he says. “Like I said, it isn’t unexpected. But you should rejoice in finding your brother and sister again; whatever the dangers they bring with them, we will face them.”

Sansa wants to hold both of them as tightly as she can. They are waiting for her in her room.

She should go, she  _ will _ go, but it has been many nights since she’s seen her husband, and he has surprised her all over again with his dedication to their shared cause. She presses a kiss to his cheek then, daring, one to his lips. “Tomorrow night, once they’re more settled, I’ll give you a proper visit.”

“Sansa,” his cheeks color.

“I want to,” she promises. She touches her stomach. “I already have your babe in here.”

“I hope you never stop surprising me,” he says. “I would kiss you, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t want you to leave if I did.”

“Tomorrow night,” she says. “You can kiss me all you like.”

“Go,” he says, waving her off, and she’s pleased to see a small smile on his face. “I will see you for breakfast.”

She smiles, and when she heads back to her chambers it’s light feet that carry her there.


	6. Chapter 6

Arya, predictably, doesn’t take well to the news that she’s going to be married.

“I don’t need a husband, and I certainly don’t want one,” she says when Sansa breaks the news to her.

Sansa wanted to wait until Tommen arrived in Winterfell, but he’s a nice boy, and she doesn’t want him hurt by Arya’s refusal. Sansa hopes to warm her sister to the idea so she doesn’t stab Tommen the moment he arrives.

“He’s a nice boy and he’s near your age,” Sansa says.

Arya scoffs. “He’s Joffrey’s brother.”

“And nothing like him.”

Arya continues to practice what she calls ‘water dancing’ and what Sansa thinks is an excuse to wave a sword about. “I don’t have any use for him.”

Sansa doesn’t dispute this even though she wants to. Arya doesn’t think about the future the way Sansa does. The only future Arya thinks about is her list.

“You know how there are rules? In life?” Sansa asks.

“Rules are stupid.” Arya looks over her shoulder, suspicious. “But yes.”

“Husbands help you get around them.”

“I could just break the rules,” Arya says.

“Tommen’s a nice boy,” Sansa says, “Sweet. Used to his mother running his life. Used to hiding from his brother. He won’t know what to do on his own.”

“I don’t follow,” Arya says. She stops dancing. 

“Marry him and you can travel anywhere you want,” Sansa says. “He has money, a good name, and he’s a man. No one will look twice at a wife traveling with her husband. Not like a girl on her own. Even if she has a sword.”

Arya’s eyes narrow. “You’re saying use him.”

“I’m saying,” Sansa allows herself to smile. “Compromise.”

Predictably, Arya groans.

“I know it doesn’t seem logical, but you will gain many freedoms when you marry him.”

“And what will I lose?” Arya asks. “Will I still get to ride? And learn my sword? Can I eat whatever I want?”

“Let him love you,” Sansa says, “and he will give you anything you want.”

Arya looks wary. “That doesn’t seem like a good trade.”

“Which is why you will be the one earning his love, showering him with gifts and awing him with displays of your skill, and not the other way around. Love is valuable to some people.”

Arya resumes her footwork. “Do you let Tyrion love you?”

“We have a different relationship,” Sansa says. “A different compromise. Neither of us expect love from our marriage.” Respect, a mutual adherence to duty, but not love. Sansa grew up wanting it, but she doesn’t think she’ll ever get it. 

“What kind of compromise?”

“Well,” Sansa says, weighing how much she can say. “Marrying him helped protect me from Joffrey. And it allowed me to come home.”

“And what’d you give him?”

“Marrying me kept him from having to marry less agreeable prospects,” Sansa says. She’s sure Lord Tywin would’ve found a wife for his son no matter how far he had to look for one. “And it got him out of King’s Landing, a place he wasn’t much safer than I was. And he gets to be father to the Lord of Winterfell, which is much more than he ever thought he would have. Our marriage has worked out for both of us.”

“Mother and Father loved each other,” Arya says.

“They did.”

“But you and Tyrion don’t.”

“No.”

Arya contemplates this. “So there’s no rule that I have to love Tommen.”

“No.”

“Huh. Do you think he’d practice sword fighting with me?”

“Something to ask him,” Sansa says. “Did you know, when you marry, you’ll become not just my sister but my niece?”

Arya scrunches up her nose. “That’s weird.”

“As weird as me becoming Joffrey’s aunt when I married Tyrion?”

Arya scowls. “Quit distracting me. I’m never going to be a master sword fighter if I don’t practice.”

“Won’t be a master sword fighter if you can’t practice without distraction,” Sansa says with a grin. She leaves before Arya can think of an angry retort.

~*~

Sansa’s pregnancy is quite visible when the Karstarks come to Winterfell.

She and Tyrion have been writing back and forth with them for quite some time so it is not an unexpected visit even if it is an unwanted one.

They had demanded that Sansa visit them as she visited the Umbers, but Sansa doesn’t trust them--they deserted Robb!--and besides, no one demands the Wardenness of the North do anything. She informed them they could send a small party to speak in the Great Hall like any of the other people under her care or they could manage their problems themselves.

Arnolf Karstark arrives with his son Arthor and a small guard. He does not, Sansa notes, bring the true heir to Karhold, his great-niece Alys, with him.

Arnolf Karstark is an old man, hair either gone or completely whitened by age, and forced to use a cane. His body has twisted like a tree as the years have gone on. His son has the long dark hair and sharp blue eyes of the rest of their house, and he stands tall with pride.

Both men are dangerous.

“Greetings Ser Arnolf,” Sansa says, and the old man stiffens like he expects to be called Lord. He is only the castellan of Karhold, keeping watch over it until Alys has a husband to rule it for her. “And greetings to you as well, Ser Arthor. Where is your brother Cregan?”

Arthor is the elder brother, married with children of his own. Sansa already has her suspicions about Cregan, but she waits for them to be confirmed.

“Stayed behind with Lady Alys,” Arthor answers. “In case of attack. The North is precarious at the moment.”

“It is,” Sansa agrees. “It’s very kind of him to watch over her. And brave. Girls often grow to enjoy the company of kind, brave men.”

Ser Arthor nods, but there’s a tightness to his mouth. So, Ser Arnolf plans to marry his ward to his son. It would give him control over Karhold, quite a large prize. Of course, not as great a prize as Winterfell, but there will be no marriages brokered between Lady Alys and Rickon or Cregan and Arya.

Best make that clear from the start.

“Perhaps there will be a marriage in the future,” Sansa says and yes, both men straighten, enough to give their plan away. “We’ll be celebrating one soon here,” she says. “My younger sister Arya has been promised to Tommen Baratheon. It should be quite the match, and one my father would’ve been proud of. Robert Baratheon was a dear friend of his.”

Sansa smiles, an edge to it to let them know she is not a little girl and they better not treat her as one. They murmur their blessings, because how could they speak against a marriage that their bannerlord would’ve approved?

“I hear your brother, Rickon, has returned to Winterfell,” Ser Arthor says. “You have many blessings to be grateful for.”

“We do,” Sansa agrees. She turns to Podrick. “Podrick, if you will, get a chair for Ser Arnolf. And Ser Arthor. They’re guests and should not be made to stand.” She smiles at the Karstarks. “We will, of course, share a meal tonight, hopefully one of many, but you understand that we wish to get business done first. We’ve had much to do since arriving in Winterfell.”

She puts her hand on the table, palm up, and Tyrion grasps it in his own. They have been discussing this visit since they got confirmation of it, and decided she should lead the discussion unless it makes sense for him to intervene. The Karstarks hate both the Starks and the Lannisters now but in theory, at least, they owe allegiance to the Starks.

As Sansa hoped, Ser Arthor cannot keep the distaste off his face when he sees the gesture.

“You don’t approve of my husband?” she asks.

By the door, Ser Sandor inches his hand closer to his sword. 

“He’s a Lannister,” Ser Arthor spits.

“So he is,” Sansa says.

“What my son is trying to say,” Ser Arnolf interjects, “is that Jaime Lannister killed his cousins.”

“I didn’t marry Jaime Lannister,” Sansa says. “I married Tyrion Lannister. Did he kill any of your cousins?”

Ser Arthor snarls. “No, but your  _ mother _ freed the Kingslayer before we could have our revenge. One dead Lannister is the same as another.”

“Hardly,” Sansa says and she lets the cold of the North seep into her voice. “Because Tyrion Lannister is my husband, and father to the future Lord of Winterfell. You will not harm him or when winter comes, I will let it bury your House beneath its might.”

The room falls silent but it does not stay silent.

“The Lannisters are our enemies!” Ser Arthor says. “The enemies of the North! They marched into  _ our _ lands, killed  _ our _ men. And now you are in bed with them, and your brother executed his own bannerman for them!”

Ser Arnolf makes an aborted move.

“He didn’t want you to hear that,” Tyrion murmurs, for her ears alone.

That’s clear enough, but why? Everyone knows that Lord Rickard wanted Jaime Lannister dead, not traded as a hostage for Sansa and Arya, and when he defied Robb’s command he was beheaded.

Except, Ser Jaime told her that it was her mother who set him free, her mother who made the exchange, and now Ser Arthor has confirmed it. Robb wasn’t even there, and hadn’t wanted to make the deal. So what could Lord Rickard have done that was so awful?

Ser Arnolf is looking at her husband, in that too-obvious way of one who is trying to be subtle.

_ One dead Lannister is the same as another _ .

She feels a sudden chill.

She glances at her husband, and can see the same conclusion written across his face.

He does not shout, or accuse. He does not draw a sword, or order Bronn to draw his. He takes a sip of his wine, and gives her a look of polite expectation.

In that moment, he reminds her suddenly and intensely of herself, sitting at dinner with Joffrey. 

She will not forget this.

She has been silent for too long. “Yes, let us speak of my brother,” Sansa says. Her husband squeezes her hand in support, and she is filled with warmth for him, for his selflessness and aid in this difficult moment. “Tell me, Ser Arthor, why did my brother, Robb Stark, march towards King’s Landing?”

“For northern independence.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Ser Arnolf, why did my brother march towards King’s Landing?”

Ser Arnolf purses his lips together. “To free you and your sister from the clutches of the King.”

“Yes,” Sansa says. “And now the King is dead and my sister and I are safe in Winterfell. But, Ser Arthor has a fair point. He changed his goal, decided to march for independence as the King in the North. Tell me, Ser Arnolf, who named him king? He was a boy, surely he didn’t name himself?”

Ser Arnolf hesitates, but he has to answer. “The late Lord Rickard, my nephew, was one of the first to name him so.”

“Yes,” Sansa says. “I think everyone in this room would agree that a boy marching to save his sisters is something that the Crown could forgive, yes? Especially if there had been a successful trade for Ser Jaime. Lord Tyrion, as son to the Hand of the King, a former Hand yourself, does this ring true?”

“It does, my lady,” Tyrion says.

“Yes. But,” Sansa turns sharp eyes on the Karstarks. “When your kin named my brother  _ king _ , they signed his death warrant as a traitor to the Crown.”

“My lady -” Ser Arnolf protests, but Sansa isn’t finished.

“So tell me,” Sansa says, “Why shouldn’t I blame you for his death as easily as I blame Walder Frey?”

Utter silence settles over the Hall, and Sansa lets it grow until she’s ready to speak again.

“My brother killed your nephew, and your nephew’s actions killed my brother. I would say that we’re even, Ser Arnolf, are we not? Or shall we have a further reckoning for lives taken?”

Ser Arthor looks like he’s going to spring out of his seat and strangle her, but Ser Arnolf puts a withered hand on his son’s leg.

“There has been damage done on both sides,” he says. “I hope that we can begin to repair that damage. We are kin, the Karstarks and Starks, and kin should not turn on each other.”

“They shouldn’t,” Sansa says, and no one in the room misses that her words are a warning.

“Rickon has returned,” Ser Arnolf says, “and I have a ward, Lady Alys -”

“No,” Sansa tells him. “We have already been betrayed once at a wedding. There must be some mending between our families before we can celebrate with weddings.”

Ser Arnolf’s eyes harden now that he isn’t getting what he wants. Sansa knows she’s going to win this afternoon’s verbal battle, but the war with the Karstarks is far from over. 

“Perhaps by the time your grandsons are of age to be wed we’ll be able to arrange something.” Sansa touches her stomach. “I am young, and my husband’s seed proves to be strong.”

There is some muttering throughout the room.

“Is there anything else you would ask of Winterfell? I know the Dreadfort stands between us, and the Boltons have declared themselves traitor by killing my aunt and cousin in the Eyrie. Have their leftover forces given you any trouble?”

“No, my lady,” Ser Arthor says, hate in his eyes. 

“They haven’t?” Sansa turns to her husband, fake surprise on her face. “I’m not wise to the ways of war. If the Boltons are our enemy and the Karstarks our friends, how is there peace between them?”

“There is not peace between us,” Ser Arnolf is quick to assure her, “What my son means is we don’t need assistance in fighting them. We will march on the Dreadfort under our own strength.”

“Very well,” Sansa says. “Traitors to the North will not keep their homes. But remember that that stronghold will not be yours to dispose of as you please. It is not the Karstarks who rule the North.”

They both glare at her with hate in their eyes, but she returns the looks evenly.

“If there is nothing else? I have more petitions to hear.”

There’s a tense moment, but the two men rise, give the most perfunctory of bows, and storm out of the hall.

While they listen to their people, Sansa moves their joined hands under the table, where no one can see her trembling. His grip is as tight as hers, and they both draw strength from it.

~*~

It’s a tense dinner. Arya eats only meat, making sure to stab everything extra vehemently with her knife. Rickon sits as small as he can in his seat, trying to go unseen. Sansa’s appetite deserts her, and she resolves to request a small meal in her chambers before bed.

It doesn’t get better the next day. 

Arya is practicing her swordplay in the exact middle of the Keep, and she throws a look at Ser Arthor every time she pierces a haystack with her blade.

Subtlety is not one of her strong suits.

“Arya,” Sansa calls, watching her sister practice to make sure no one gets accidentally--or purposefully--killed. “Might I speak with you a moment?”

Arya scowls but she stops scattering hay everywhere and goes to join her. “What?”

Sansa lowers her voice so only Arya can hear. “I know you want them to be afraid of you, but be careful you don’t show them all your tricks.”

Arya frowns.

“Never show an enemy all of your strengths,” Sansa explains. “And only let him think he knows your weaknesses.” Sansa stands and pats her sister on her shoulder. Louder, she says, “If you’re tired of menacing dead plants, perhaps you should try a real opponent. Young Laurent is looking bored.”

Arya grins and skips over to the poor lad “Hear that? The  _ Lady of Winterfell _ says you have to fight me.”

“Good advice,” Tyrion murmurs, coming to stand beside Sansa.

She hadn’t realized he was so close. It must mean she doesn’t see him as a threat.

“Hopefully she’ll take it.”

“You’ve gotten through to her about Tommen,” Tyrion says. “She was asking me what kinds of things he liked the other day. She’s trying to convince Ser Sandor to take her hunting so she can get him a fur cloak made.”

“Arya the provider,” Sansa laughs.

“Well, it seems someone told her that she would have to court him.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Tommen at home with her handmaidens while she goes on hunting trips.” Tyrion shakes his head ruefully. “I think he might actually like that. He doesn’t have the stomach for fighting. Too much watching Joffrey use weapons for the wrong reasons.”

Bronn hovers near them, never far from Tyrion now that the Karstarks are visiting, just like Ser Sandor has made himself Sansa’s very large, very obvious shadow. 

“We should let her go hunting,” Sansa says. “Anything to encourage her to do something kind for the poor boy. And it is cold up here, he could use the extra warmth. I’ll speak to Farlen about it; he’s been wanting to get the hounds out.”

“You’re comfortable with this?” Tyrion asks, hesitant. “I know you don’t like the hounds.”

“They’re trained to hunt,” Sansa says. “Farlen will ensure they hunt the right things. Didn’t one of the nearby farms complain of wolves pestering their sheep? We can solve two issues at once.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says. “I came to find you because we’ve gotten a raven. I wanted to wait for you to open it.”

“From who?” Sansa asks, turning away from Arya’s bout. Poor Laurent is already on the ground.

Tyrion leads her up to his office. “My father.”

“Good news, I hope,” Sansa says.

They don’t say anything else until they’re in the large room. Tyrion pulls the scroll from his pocket and opens it, shoulders sagging with relief. 

“The Eyrie has been captured,” he says. “Roose Bolton was killed in the attack. His bastard and Theon Greyjoy were captured trying to escape.” He makes a face and Sansa snatches the parchment from him.

She reads quickly. There is an account of the march to the blood gate. Bodies lined the cliffs on either side of the path, bodies that had been flayed alive. Petyr Baelish was among them. Framing the gate were the heads of Sansa’s aunt and cousin, the only parts of them found. Apparently they had leapt from the Moon Door when they heard the Eyrie had fallen. 

Sansa hands the scroll back. “I want Ramsay and Theon brought here, alive. And I want Petyr Baelish’s head.”

“My lady -”

“Bury the rest,” Sansa says.

She turns from her husband, needing to compose herself. Ramsay and Theon prisoners. Ramsay is crafty, she should have them both put to death first and brought to her after. It’s safer. But not what she wants. And, if Theon is as broken as he was in her time, then death is too kind for him. Especially when she can use him to bargain with the Greyjoys.

“And send out ravens to the Great Houses in the North,” she says. “Tell them of the success and tell them they’re all summoned to Winterfell. I want them to witness what happens to traitors.”

“My lady,” Tyrion begins, softer this time. “You don’t have to.”

“I do,” Sansa says. She  _ wants _ to. “I cannot wield a sword like my father did, but I must show that Winterfell is strong, that it is  _ ours, _ and we will accept no threats. When you write the Greyjoys, tell them we have their son and are willing to negotiate.”

“Theon burned your home,” Tyrion says, “He pretended to burn your brothers, and he killed members of your household.”

“We need the Greyjoys to put aside their rebellion,” Sansa says. “We need the North united. Winter is coming.”

“I agree with the decision,” Tyrion says, “but I thought I would have to talk you into it.”

“Do you think me less dedicated to Northern unification than you?” she asks, her first allusion to the revelation about the Karstarks.

He inclines his head, conceding the point.

“If they won’t meet my terms then I will have no mercy,” Sansa says, “but I think they’ll see my side. We’ll have to keep the Karstarks here until after we’ve dealt with the prisoners. And find a way to get Lady Alys and Cregan Karstark here; I want everyone to bear witness.”

“What are you planning?” Tyrion asks.

Sansa turns back to her husband, aware that her smile is far from friendly. “I’m going to show them the mercy of the North.”

~*~

The Karstarks don’t seem pleased by the extension of their stay, and Sansa wants them gone as well, but there is something she wants them to see first. She wants them to see how the Wardenness of the North deals with those who betray her, not just hear threats. 

Words are only as powerful as the belief behind them.

And action provides belief.

All of the major houses are coming, not just those sworn to the Starks. Sansa has the feeling they want to take their measure of her, see what kind of ruler sits in Winterfell. She intends to give them a full demonstration.

“Walder Frey declines the invitation,” Tyrion says, as they go over their latest messages.

Well, most of the houses are coming.

“Does he?” Sansa asks, and she sounds remote, detached. A change has come over her since Lord Tywin’s message. She doesn’t feel quite like herself. She takes turns being scared of Ramsay’s arrival and anticipating the fear on his face when she unleashes her wrath on him. 

Tyrion’s fingers twitch like there’s more to the message than a simple no.

“What else does he say?” Sansa asks.

“He says that he’s heard word of Arya’s betrothal, but that Rickon is unwed and he has many daughters.”

Sansa’s fingers curl into the desk. He dares mock her? “How many men do you think we would need to take the Twins?” she asks.

“More than we have,” Tyrion says. “We could appeal to my father. But do we want to leave both the Eyrie and the Twins without a lord?”

Arya and Tommen have been promised the Eyrie, but it’s too soon to send them there. Lord Tywin's army must first secure it and ensure the other Lords of the Vale will cooperate.

“Didn’t some relation of my mother’s marry a Frey?” Sansa asks. She thought she heard mention of it, when she could bear to hear anything of the Red Wedding beyond the deaths of her mother and brother.

“Yes. He’s still in a prison cell as far as I know,” Tyrion says.

“He must be broken out of it,” Sansa says. “Him and his wife, or just him if that’s what he prefers, can rule the Twins. After, of course, Walder Frey meets his death. I would like to be there to watch Arya drive her sword through his traitorous heart, but we’re needed here. Write to Lord Tywin and suggest it to him.”

“Yes, my lady,” Tyrion says. “Arya has gotten the wolf pelt she intends to be made into a cloak for Tommen, but she wants to go on the hunting parties that are going to feed all of our incoming guests.”

“Do you trust the men in the hunting party to keep her safe?”

“I do.”

“Then let her go. Hopefully we can get her bloodthirst whetted before our guests arrive.”

“And yours?” Tyrion asks, no longer pretending to look through their letters. He looks straight at her.

“I will whet mine when our prisoners arrive.”


	7. Chapter 7

_ Chapter 7 _

Tommen arrives in Winterfell before any of the other visitors. Sansa had almost forgotten about him in her preparation for everything else. 

He shows up on a snow white horse, flanked by men in Lannister armor. He looks uncomfortable and kind of lost, but he brightens slightly when he sees his uncle. Before they can embrace, Arya appears in front of him.

“I’m Arya Stark,” she says. “I’m supposed to marry you but I can’t if you freeze to death.” She touches his cloak and scoffs at it before shoving his new cloak at him. “I hunted down a wolf for this. Killed it, too.”

Tommen’s eyes dart from the cloak to his uncle then finally to Arya. “Thank you?”

Arya shrugs. “Don’t die.”

She goes back to the practice yards and Tommen watches her go, awe on his face. Sansa thinks he might be halfway to being in love with her already.

Poor boy.

“Welcome,” Sansa tells Tommen. “I’m sorry if my sister overwhelmed you.”

“She’s not what I expected,” Tommen says.

“She has that effect,” Sansa says. “But she interrupted your reunion with your uncle. I’ll leave you two to it. Wynn, is Lord Tommen’s room made up? The one next to Tyrion’s?”

“It is, my lady.” 

Sansa turns to the men Tommen brought with him. “Wynn can show you where to take his things. When you’re finished, Ser Marvin will show you where you can quarter.”

“Ser Daimen at your service,” the man at the front of the guard says.

“Lady Sansa,” Sansa returns. 

She looks over at Tyrion and Tommen, only to find Tommen looking at her. “I’m not a Lord,” he says.

“Your grandfather didn’t tell you?” Tyrion asks. “You are Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale. You and Arya will have a castle of your own once you’re a little more grown.”

Sansa suspects that Arya will in fact be Defender of the Vale, but she doesn’t mention it now.

“Oh. So grandfather didn’t send me away because he was cross with me?”

“You are going to be married,” Tyrion says. “He wouldn’t use that as a punishment, would he?”

Sansa raises her eyebrows once Tommen is no longer looking at her. Tyrion holds a finger up to his lips, and she smiles, shaking her head. Cersei was certainly married out of punishment. Tyrion too, though that has worked out nicely.

“He’s cross with me,” Tommen says, more confident this time. “I don’t know why, though. I didn’t do anything wrong. But he said it was time I got out of the capital. So I wasn’t a distraction to Briar. How could I distract him? He doesn’t even talk.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says, like he understands. Sansa doesn’t. She’ll ask him later. “You remember when Joffrey was King?”

Tommen nods.

“Your grandfather was looking for a marriage then for then you too, a place for you to live and rule unless something happened to Joffrey. But when Queen Margaery had a child,  _ he _ became heir to the throne.”

“But don’t want to be King,” Tommen says. “I didn’t before, when Father was King, or Joffrey. And I don’t now. I told Joffrey -” Tommen cuts himself off, looks down at the ground. “I don’t want to be King.”

“I know that,” Tyrion says. “This isn’t a punishment. You will have a home and a castle all your own, far from politics and scheming.” 

“And you’ll have a wife,” Sansa says. “The only thing you have to worry about is being a good husband.” She says it with a smile, a little bit teasing, but also a little bit serious.

“I’ll be the best husband,” Tommen is quick to promise. “I will love her and cherish her and make her think she’s the most beautiful woman in all the land.”

Arya is going to eat him alive, Sansa thinks. She reaches out to cup Tommen’s cheek. “Perhaps tell her she’s the strongest woman in all the land. She’ll like that better.”

Tommen looks down at the cloak in his hands. “Are there beasts to hunt in the Eyrie?”

“She will love it there,” Sansa promises. “And you’ll be the one to give it to her.”

She can see when he makes the connection: if she loves the Eyrie, and I give her the Eyrie, then she’ll love me as well. It’s not quite accurate, but Sansa hopes that as Arya grows, she’ll grow to love her husband. 

“But right now you’re betrothed,” Tyrion says, voice gruff, “so you worry about courtship, not love. Love comes with marriage.”

Tommen nods, young and earnest, and Sansa thinks he’s lucky he escaped King’s Landing before it destroyed him.

“Are you two taking dinner privately or with all of us?” Sansa asks.

“We’re one family,” Tyrion says. “We’ll dine together.”

One family. Sansa smiles. She leans in to kiss Tyrion’s cheek. “I’ll let Gage know.”

As she’s walking away, she hears Tyrion saying, “Stop staring. We’re married, we’re allowed to kiss. But don’t get any ideas about Arya; she carries a sword.”

Sansa finds herself laughing as she heads down to the kitchens. 

~*~

They dine without the Karstarks on account of Tommen’s arrival, and Sansa welcomes the opportunity to relax at dinner. She has to be constantly on her guard when the Karstarks are around, but now all she has to worry about is Arya’s treatment of Tommen.

Sansa hoped to seat them next to each other, but Arya preempts her by taking her usual spot, with a whole side of the table to herself.

Arya surprises her by saying, “I don’t know why couples are supposed to sit on the same side of the table. You can’t see each other.”

So at least she’s thinking about it.

“Ah, but it’s harder to take food off their plate,” Tyrion says.

Arya’s head snaps up like she hadn’t considered this possibility.

“But she doesn’t need to do that, because we have plenty,” Sansa says, voice steady. She’s going to cheerfully strangle her husband if he stirs up needless trouble.

“I can share,” Tommen offers.

“You’re very kind,” Sansa says. And Arya’s going to walk all over him.

“So is Arya,” Tommen says. “My new cloak is very warm.”

“Good.” Arya’s chest puffs up, probably less at the compliment to her character than to her hunting.

“Uncle Tyrion says the Eyrie’s going to be ours. Do you know anything about it?”

“My aunt used to live there but she got killed,” Arya says with a shrug.

Tommen looks horrified.

Sansa’s going to have to make sure all the flayed bodies have, in fact, been buried before she lets Tommen and Arya go there.

“But then your grandfather brought in an army to avenge them,” Sansa says firmly.

“I’m very sorry,” Tommen says, sweet and sincere. “Did you know your aunt well? I’ve seen a lot of my uncles, and I would be sad if something happened to them.”

Tyrion seems pleasantly surprised by this, smiling slightly.

“Not well,” Sansa says. “Nor my cousin. They held your Uncle Tyrion prisoner for a time.”

Tommen looks at his uncle, and Tyrion’s smile has been replaced with a scowl. “Truly?”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Tyrion says.

“You were a prisoner?” Arya asks. “What was it like? I was a prisoner once. We could share stories.”

“It’s how I met Bronn,” Tyrion says. “He fought for me in a trial by combat when I wasn’t given the time to ask Jaime to come fight for me.”

“Boring,” Arya dismisses. “I watched a man get tortured with rats.”

They went from thank yous for cloaks to discussing torture, Sansa thinks with despair. 

“Harrenhal?” Tyrion guesses.

“Rats?” Tommen asks, looking pale.

“Yeah,” Arya says. “See, what they did -”

“Not at the dinner table,” Sansa interrupts. “Please.”

Arya pouts. “Fine. Later, then? When we’re not eating?”

Sansa bows her head. At least Lord Tywin will ensure this marriage happens no matter what horrible stories Arya tells. 

“How was the journey from King’s Landing?” Sansa asks. “Not too long, I hope?”

“It was fine,” Tommen says, “but I’m glad to be here. My mother and uncles were all sent away, and Grandfather has been quite busy as Hand. I’m glad to be with family again.”

“We’re glad you’re with us,” Sansa says. “We’re about to have a lot of company. Do you know your Northern Houses?”

Tommen nods. “I enjoy reading. The library was always safe.”

From Joffrey, Sansa hears, and she longs to hold the boy’s hand and promise that no one will ever hurt him again. It’s not a promise she’s confident she can keep. 

“We’ll have to test you when they come,” Sansa says, careful to keep her voice light, teasing. “I bet you’ll do better than Arya.”

“Will not!” Arya protests.

“Oh?” Sansa asks. “Are you going to start spending less time with your sword and more time with your books?”

Arya scowls, realizing she’s been tricked.

“Marriage is about partnership,” Sansa says. “It’s good for you to be better at different things. If you’re both good at the same five things, you only know five things. If you’re both good at five different things, then together you’re good at ten things.”

Tommen looks pleased that he’s contributing something. 

“You’re never going to stop giving me lectures, are you?” Arya asks.

“Not until the day you’re married and leave me for the Eyrie,” Sansa says with a smile.

“I bet you’ll still send ravens,” Arya says. “I can shoot the ravens.”

“You certainly can,” Sansa says. She looks across the table at her husband and finds his gaze on her stomach. She touches the large bump and closes her eyes, lets herself imagine that the voices she hears at the table are her children, Winterfell’s halls filled with happiness again. 

When she opens her eyes, Tyrion’s still watching her, and she can see her dreams reflected in his eyes.

~*~

The Mormonts are the first family to arrive, the Karstarks notwithstanding. 

Lady Maege Mormont rides into Winterfell with her daughter Lyanna, only ten years of age, and named after Sansa’s aunt. 

Arya, of course, makes the connection, and says the worst possible thing. “My Father’s sister was named Lyanna. Want to see where she’s buried?”

“Apologies,” Sansa tells Lady Maege and Lady Lyanna. “Arya, why don’t you show Lord Tommen around the practice yard?”

Arya, happy to be excused from ‘polite stuff’, is quick to disappear.

“She’s a spirited child,” Lady Maege says. 

“She is,” Sansa says, “Despite all the hardship she’s faced.”

“We heard she’d gone missing from King’s Landing,” Lady Maege says. “Lyanna and I prayed every day that she wasn’t dead.”

“The gods heard your prayers,” Sansa says. “I thank you for them.”

She personally escorts the Mormonts to their rooms. When she goes to take her leave, so they can unpack and rest from their ride, Lady Maege takes Sansa’s hands in hers.

“We mourned for your family,” Lady Maege says. “For your father, your mother, your brothers. Tonight, we’ll go to the godswood and thank the gods Rickon lived.”

“Theon’s treachery was not as deep as it could’ve been,” Sansa says. “Bran and Rickon lived, but Bran is still missing; he and Rickon were separated. The Seven willing, he’ll be found by a loyal family the way Rickon was.”

“We’ll pray,” Lady Maege promises. 

“Thank you,” Sansa says, and she means it. 

~*~

Two days after the Mormonts arrive, Sansa and Tyrion receive word that a small army is marching on the Twins. Not long after they receive the news, Ser Kevan Lannister arrives at Winterfell from the Eyrie.

He greets Tyrion with a nod. “Nephew.” Sansa gets a real bow and a respectful “My lady.”

“Niece is fine,” Sansa tells him. “Or simply Sansa. We’re family.”

The man looks shocked, but he recovers well. “Of course...Sansa. We’ve brought you two prisoners and,” he looks around, “the head of Petyr Baelish.”

“The head first,” Sansa says.

She isn’t surprised when Arya pops up at her side. “Did he say a head? Like one not attached to a body?”

Ser Kevan looks from Arya to Sansa in mild horror.

“You don’t need to see this,” Sansa says. Not the way Sansa does.

“It’s not very ladylike to look at severed heads,” Arya says, suspicious. “Why did you want a head?”

“Petyr Baelish tried to poison me,” Sansa says, managing to shock Ser Kevan yet again. “He  _ did _ poison me, but the Seven saw fit to spare my life. I want to see that he is dead.”

Arya studies Sansa like she’s more interesting than Arya gave her credit for. 

“Understandable,” Tyrion says, and he offers his hand for Sansa to hold as two men bearing the Lannister sigil bring forth a small wooden trunk.

At Tyrion’s nod they open it, and it takes all Sansa’s willpower not to gag when the stench hits her. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, she has plenty of experience with severed heads. Joffrey dragged her to look at enough of them that she isn’t ill when she stares at the head in the box.

The eyes are closed. She doesn’t know what she expected - to see fear in them? - but the face is unmistakably Petyr Baelish’s. Another threat gone. Another man who can never hurt her again.

“It’s him,” Sansa says. “Someone take that far away and bury it. Unless someone else has need of it.”

“Lord Tywin said it was yours to do with as you pleased,” Ser Kevan says. “Would you like to see your prisoners?”

“Bring Theon forth,” Sansa says.

They’ve gathered a small crowd, Lady Maege is here but thankfully Lyanna is not. Both Karstarks are here as well. Sansa keeps her head held high as Theon is brought before her.

He’s in chains, but she suspects they’re not needed. He’s as pliant, as  _ broken _ , as he’d been in her time. Perhaps more broken. Ramsay only has him to torment, and no Sansa. Never Sansa, never again. Theon’s head lolls forward like he can’t be bothered to hold it up, and his shoulders curl in on himself, bracing for a blow.

Pathetic.

“Theon Greyjoy,” Sansa says and he flinches at the name, mutters something not quite loud enough to be heard. “You have betrayed the Starks and are now a prisoner of them. However, your family comes here to await your fate, and in good faith we will not see you abused at our hands.”

There are murmurs through the courtyard.

“Put him in his room,” Sansa says, “The room he was raised in as a ward of Winterfell. Put guards at his doors, but let him sleep there again and think on what he gave up. Let him think on whether it was worth it.”

The murmurs immediately quiet.

Tyrion, who is still holding her hand, gives it a comforting squeeze. 

Sansa waits until Theon has been brought away before she takes a steadying breath. “Bring the bastard forward.”

Ramsay is shoved forward, his chains thicker than Theon’s, and there’s filth covering his face and his clothes, but he has the same smirk when she looks upon his face, the same glint in his eyes that suggests he’s as mad as the Mad King.

“Bastards don’t receive the same consideration as former wards, especially bastards with no one left to care for their treatment,” Sansa says. Her voice does not waver. “Put him in a cell and make sure there are always four guards posted.”

“That seems excessive,” the soldier to Ser Kevan’s left says.

Ramsay sways closer to Sansa. “You’re a pretty thing,” he says. “You and I could have so much fun.”

Sansa’s grip tightens on her husband’s hand, tight enough she’s surprised he doesn’t cry out.

“Four seems about right,” Tyrion says.

Ramsay cackles as he’s dragged away. 

Sansa’s free hand rubs her stomach. Her husband stands at her side, his child is in her belly. This is a different time. Ramsay didn’t get her. She isn’t his. 

And in a few days he’ll be as dead as Petyr Baelish. As dead as Joffrey. 

“Ser Kevan, thank you for liberating the Eyrie and bringing us these prisoners. Might we offer quarters to you and your men?”

“Thank you,” Ser Kevan says.

“You and your officers are, of course, welcome to join us for dinner,” Sansa says. “With you and the Karstarks and the Mormonts, it may be time to use the long table.”

“And Arya might finally have found someone to share her rat stories with,” Tyrion says with a smile. “We’ll make sure to put her and Ser Kevan next to each other.”

A faint smile rises on Sansa’s face, but she suspects she won’t be able to truly smile until Ramsay is gone.

“Ser Kevan is family,” Sansa says. “Don’t torment him.”

“That’s exactly why I shall,” Tyrion says.

~*~

When seating is arranged, Sansa’s job, not Tyrion’s, she puts the children - Rickon, Arya, Tommen, and Lyanna - at one end of the table and the adults at the other. She hopes Arya doesn’t say anything too horrifying. Eddard is staying with his nurse for the duration of the festivities. She wants him well out of all of this. 

“Will you tell us now your plan for the prisoners?” Ser Arthor asks.

“And ruin the surprise?” Sansa asks. “That wouldn’t be fair to all those still traveling.”

“If you can even call them both prisoners,” Ser Arthor adds. “House arrest? You’re a soft touch.”

“There’s something wrong with the Greyjoy boy,” Ser Kevan says. “Well, several things. But he’s not right in the head.”

“Any room is a prison for him,” Sansa explains. 

“From what we can tell, he was a prisoner of the Bolton bastard,” Ser Kevan says, cutting up his roast boar. “It’s best you didn’t put the two of them together. The Greyjoy would kill himself if it freed the other one.”

“Torture?” Tyrion asks.

Sansa wonders what’s wrong with her family that they can’t go one meal without discussing torture.

“Definitely,” Ser Kevan says. “And...well, let’s just say it’ll be some time before I eat sausage again.”

Tyrion eyebrows go up. “He - truly?”

Ser Arthor winces and bangs his knee trying to cross his legs under the table.

Sansa clears her throat. “I understand having to tell my younger sister that torture isn’t an acceptable dinner conversation, but I thought as adults you would know better.”

Lady Maege coughs into her napkin.

“Sorry, my lady,” Ser Kevan says. “I’ve grown too used to being on the road with my men.”

“How long do you plan to stay?” Tyrion asks.

“Not long. We’re going to come at the Freys from two sides. I might come back to bring Tommen and his bride to the Eyrie. I do what the Hand commands.”

Tyrion raises his wine glass. “As do we all.”

“It would please me if my lord father gave you permission to escort Tommen and my sister,” Sansa says. “I would feel safe if they were with you and,” she smiles, “you will hopefully get to meet the babe.” She pats her stomach. “I know the child of your niece-by-marriage is a slim kinship, but blood still ties us together.”

Ser Arthor splutters, probably unhappy to be sharing his table with more Lannisters. Sansa’s not sure who will be more pleased when the Karstarks are finally gone; the Karstarks or herself.

The baby in her belly kicks, and Sansa presses a hand to her stomach as if that will calm her. She is a lot more active than Eddard was. She hopes that doesn’t mean the child will take after her Aunt Arya.

She hopes the demonstration she has planned will put to rest the last of the rebellions in the North. All the work she and her husband have done to fortify the North will mean nothing if they cannot march to the Wall in time to drive back the winter.

“Sansa? My lady?”

Sansa looks up to see several concerned stares. Her husband, the one calling her name, has reached for her.

“Apologies,” she says. She rubs her stomach. “The baby is feeling left out, and wanted to make her presence known. It’s very distracting.”

A few people laugh.

“Not much longer now,” Tyrion says, patting her hand.

“Hopefully you won’t give birth during your plans for the Bolton,” Ser Arthor says.

“He’s not a Bolton,” Sansa says sharply. “He’s a bastard. And the baby will wait.”

Sansa won’t allow her daughter to live in the same world as Ramsay Snow.

~*~

It’s a relief for dinner to end. Sansa wants the Karstarks out of her home. For different reasons, she wants the Mormonts and Kevan Lannister and the others gone as well. She wants Winterfell to be  _ hers _ again. Just the household and her family.

Trying to balance everyone’s demands and threats and simple existence is exhausting.

She sends Arya and Rickon to her chambers to be watched over and entertained by Osha and Wynn, and Sansa joins her husband in his. He drinks from a glass of wine as he walks about the room, and Sansa wishes for a moment she could indulge as well.

“The Greyjoy boy is broken,” Tyrion says. “I didn’t expect that.”

Sansa did. “He’ll still serve our purposes.”

“He can no longer function as heir.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa says. “Theon was my father’s ward and was treated honorably. He swore himself to Robb’s banner. And then he turned around and betrayed all that. He was completely in the wrong in every way. And Lord Greyjoy is proud, very proud. He will want to make him, and his deeds, disappear. If my demands are reasonable, he will be willing to pretend this never happened.”

“And do you intend it to be?”

“I’ve told you before, all I want is peace in the North.”

“They’ve broken their word before. Taken up arms against you.”

“Yes, and look where that’s gotten them. Besides, I’m going to deal with Ramsay first. And when the Karstarks and Greyjoys see how the other Houses affirm their loyalty, if they still want to cross me then they’ll have more than just Winterfell to contend with.”

“Sometimes,” Tyrion says, looking into his wine glass, “I’m not sure whether I’m more impressed by or frightened of you.”

Sansa smiles. “You’re my husband, my partner, my ally. There’s nothing for you to fear from me.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Tyrion walks over to join her on the bench. “Will you tell me your plans for the bastard, or am I to be kept in the dark as the others?”

Sansa reaches out to take his hand. “I can’t tell you, but not for the same reasons. For them, I want it to be a surprise. For you,” Sansa spares a glance at her husband, “I’m afraid you’ll disapprove, and if you do I won’t be able to do what I must.”

“Sansa -”

She pulls away and stands. “I’m going to be cruel. I know what I have planned and it isn’t kind or ladylike, but I’m going to do it. I’m going to make an example of him, show what happens to those who betray us. I worry that it will turn me into Joffrey, but -” Sansa takes a deep breath. “I still remember him laughing when he gave the order to behead my father. When I think about what I must do, I feel sick. As long as I keep that, I will never become him.”

“There are several reasons you’ll never become Joffrey,” Tyrion tells her.

“Could we speak of something else?”

“Of course,” Tyrion says. “My Uncle Kevan?”

“What of him?”

“He remarked to me how strange it is to be dining in Winterfell with Starks. The last time he saw a Stark, it was across the battlefield, waging a war against your brother.”

Sansa smiles. “Don’t you mean  _ losing _ a war?” She looks over her shoulder at her husband.

He smiles as well. “I’ll be sure to mention that to him. My point, I suppose, is that he had a grudging sort of respect for the Stark boys, but he now holds quite a deep admiration for the Stark women.”

Sansa arches her eyebrows. “You did remind him that I have a husband, did you not?”

Tyrion laughs. “Not that kind of admiration. I’m sure this won’t surprise you given your time in King’s Landing, but the South doesn’t hold the North in very high regard. You have changed an old man’s mind.”

“Not that old,” Sansa says.

It’s Tyrion’s turn to arch his eyebrows. “Might I remind you, my lady, that you have a husband?”

His words startle a laugh out of her, sharp and bursting and completely unexpected. Tyrion’s clearly pleased to have made her laugh, and he rises from the bench to stand by her side. 

“I am yours and you are mine,” he says, solemn as he repeats their wedding vows. “Through everything we face.”

“I am yours and you are mine,” Sansa says. She clasps his hand tight in hers. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Ramsay. Violence, explicit references to Sansa's traumatic past. Also Theon

Sansa has trouble sleeping now that Ramsay is back in Winterfell. It doesn’t matter that he’s the one imprisoned now instead of her, it doesn’t matter that she knows he’s going to be dead in a few days. As long as he’s here, she can’t settle, she can’t help the fear that grips her heart.

She’s able to distract herself during the day, there are still petitions to hear, and there are new families arriving daily that she has to settle and discuss matters with. She has meals to plan, then seating plans to arrange and the meals to oversee, has to make sure no fights break out.

It’s exhausting but when she falls into bed, her sister on one side, her brother on the other, sleep doesn’t come.

She has her siblings with her and two direwolves protecting her, but she still doesn’t feel safe. 

One night, after Arya and Rickon are soundly asleep, Sansa slips out of bed. She puts a dressing gown on then layers a cloak over it, making sure to do up all the clasps so no one can see she’s not in proper clothes.

“Nymeria,” she whispers. “Nymeria, come.”

The wolf lifts her head, sleepy but curious. Sansa only has to call her name once more before she rises and comes to Sansa’s side.

Sansa’s careful when she opens the door, not wanting to wake anyone. She and Nymeria go down to the dungeons, unnoticed until the guards outside Ramsay’s cell see her.

“My lady!”

The four of them leap to their feet, knocking over the small table that held their wine and their cards. Coins scatter across the floor and the cards get soaked immediately in wine.

“May I have a moment with the prisoner?” Sansa asks. 

“My lady, he’s -” “It’s quite late and -”

Sansa’s look silences their protests. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. 

“We can stay,” the third guard says.

Sansa pats Nymeria’s head. “He is in his cell, and I have Nymeria. You can stand at the end of the hall, and I will call you if I need assistance.”

They shift, clearly nervous, and one of them darts a look at her stomach.

“Is his cell door locked?” Sansa asks.

The four nod.

“Does he have a weapon stashed in there?”

They shake their heads.

“Then what possible threat is he to me?”

“We’ll wait by the door, my lady.”

“Thank you.”

Sansa waits until they clank and clamber down to the far side of the hall to finally face Ramsay. He appears to have been waiting as well. As soon as he realizes he has her attention, and only hers, he rises from the corner of the cell he was in. He no longer looks like a cowed prisoner.

He stands tall, swaggers to the bars of his cell, and only the clink of his chains reminds her that he’s the one imprisoned and not her. 

Coming here had been a mistake. 

“A nighttime visit from the lady of the keep,” Ramsay says in his same lilting voice. “To what do I owe this...pleasure?”

She will not let him frighten her in her own home. She - the words remind her of something else,  _ someone _ else. 

“You managed to escape with Theon,” Sansa says, forcing her voice to stay light, “however short-lived that escape was, but there was someone else. A girl. She didn’t escape the slaughter?”

Ramsay’s eye twitches, the one sign she’s got to him, before a slow smile spreads across his face. “Jealous?”

“Hardly,” Sansa says. “You didn’t answer my question. Did the Lannister forces get her? Or did she escape with you and get torn apart by the hounds sent to track you down?”

Ramsay stares steadily at her through the metal bars. 

“It was the second, wasn’t it?” Sansa says. “Ironic that the daughter of the houndmaster is killed by hounds.”

Ramsay grabs the prison bars and presses his face as close to hers as he can. “How did you know about Myranda? Have you been keeping an eye on me? Do I interest you?”

“Your death interests me,” Sansa tells him. 

Ramsay relaxes, shifting away from the door. “And so did Myranda’s? Why?”

“Was Myranda her name?” Sansa asks. “I didn’t care enough to find out.”

Ramsay studies her, evaluating, and she refuses to back down under his stare.

“And Reek’s death?” Ramsay asks. “You’d know him as Theon. You interested in how he dies?”

“You won’t know,” Sansa says. “You’ve had your fun with him, and it’s over.”

“Now it’s your turn?” Ramsay’s smirk is back. “I’m afraid he’s missing a few important bits if fun’s what you’re looking for.” His eyes stray down to her stomach. “But there’s somewhere else you’re getting fun.”

Nymeria growls and snaps her teeth. Sansa pets her head, rewarding the behavior.

“What happens to Theon is none of your business.”

“Theon’s dead,” Ramsay says, “I saw to that. You can kill Reek, but what’s the fun in burning a hollowed-out corpse?”

Perhaps it’s time for Sansa to go. She doesn’t know what she hoped to accomplish by coming down here. She has confirmation, or as close to it as she’s going to get, that Myranda is dead. She’s seen with her own two eyes that Ramsay is securely trapped down here. 

She wishes he was unhappier with his imprisonment, but she’ll settle for soon to be dead.

“Don’t leave,” Ramsay says, “We’ve been having such a lovely conversation. A bit one-sided though. My turn to ask the questions. If I’m truly a bastard, less than nothing in your eyes, then why bother having me brought here? A bit of a waste, don’t you think?”

Sansa lets a smile grow across her face. It is not a nice smile. “You are  _ nothing _ , Ramsay Snow.”

There’s that little twitch of the eye again.

Sansa presses more. “How desperate your father must have been, to settle for  _ you _ . Tell me, when did he legitimize you? After you rode on the Eyrie or before? It doesn’t matter, of course, there’s no record to be found that you’re a Bolton. But, to satisfy my...interest.”

“The Eyrie was going to be mine,” Ramsay says. “There was a bitch to be wed and an heir waiting right there for me. The husband would be easy to kill. Flay him in front of the other two, and no one would dare defy me. The bitch turned out to be crazy - jumped out the window with her boy. I wanted to display their whole bodies on the cliffs, but there wasn’t enough left of them.”

As much as Sansa disliked her aunt and her cousin, they didn’t deserve that kind of death. At least it was more merciful than what Ramsay would’ve given them.

“I didn’t mourn,” Ramsay tells her, “Why would I? If I was going to be a Lord, why settle for the Eyrie? After all, Winterfell still had a lady for me to wed.”

Fear creeps down her spine, leaving goosebumps across her skin. She’s glad for her cloak, because it hides it.

“You failed,” Sansa tells him. “You won’t get Winterfell, and you won’t get me.”

Not in this time. In this time, she triumphs over him. 

“I’m still alive,” Ramsay reminds her. “And I’m in Winterfell.”

Sansa crouches beside Nymeria, rubs between her ears and the thick fur protecting her neck. “Nymeria, this is Ramsay.”

Nymeria growls again and presses forward like she wishes she could get through the bars. Sansa’s been telling her stories of Ramsay, teaching her to hate the name as much as Sansa does.

“Soon,” Sansa promises, continuing to rub her fur. She looks up at Ramsay, smiles when she sees a hint of fear in his eyes. “Soon.”

~*~

The Umbers and the Greyjoys arrive on the same day, the last two Houses to arrive. The Lords and Ladies of the other Houses join Sansa and her husband in the courtyard to greet them.

“Lord Greatjon,” Sansa greets. “Lord Smalljon. It is good to see you both again.”

“You have grown much,” Lord Greatjon tells her. “Another child to bless Winterfell’s halls?”

“The Seven be willing,” Sansa says, touching her stomach. “You know my brother Rickon, of course. Thank you again for protecting him until he could return home.” Sansa holds out a hand and Rickon steps forward and gives the Umbers a small wave.

“Good to see you healthy,” Lord Greatjon says.

“And my sister,” Sansa says, beckoning Arya and Tommen to step forward. “Arya Stark, betrothed to Tommen Baratheon, brother of the late King. Once they are of age and married, they will be your future Lord and Lady of the Eyrie.”

Murmurs spread through the assembled crowd. Sansa hadn’t shared that information yet. 

“The retaking of the Eyrie is, of course, what has brought us all here together,” Sansa says. “For when the Eyrie was reclaimed from its intruders, we gained possession of Ramsay Snow and Theon Greyjoy.”

There’s a muffled sound from beyond the Umbers, and Sansa hides her satisfied smile.

“Lord Balon Greyjoy,” she calls, “There’s no need to hide. You’ve been invited here as guests and unlike some in the North, we honor guest right here.”

Lord Balon pushes forward, a young woman at his side. Not wife, Sansa thinks, trying to remember her lessons. Daughter. Asha Greyjoy. His heir given Theon’s...condition.

“Not hiding,” he says, voice gruff.

“Simply waiting our turn,” Asha says, smoothly stepping in front of her father.

Sansa smiles at the woman. “Lady Asha, welcome to Winterfell.”

“Captain, if it pleases you,” Asha says, “If you’re a lady then I certainly cannot be one.”

There is scattered laughter throughout the crowd, and Sansa can see the hate in Lord Balon’s eyes, the way Asha draws herself up tall. Greyjoys have their pride, Sansa reminds herself, and they will be impossible to deal with if they feel it’s wounded.

“You laugh at a woman captaining a ship?” Sansa asks, turning to speak to the crowd. “Have you not seen Arya in the practice grounds? Do you laugh at a woman wielding a sword? Surely you heard of the ruin Winterfell was left in, and now you have seen it rebuilt to its former glory. Do you laugh at a woman who can run a Keep? So why is it so odd to you that a woman may captain a ship?”

The courtyard falls silent. 

“The Greyjoys are my guests, just as all of you are.” Sansa looks out over the assembled people, from the Karstarks to the Umbers, from the Mormonts to the Reeds. There are over a dozen Houses here, and she intends for them all to know who has the authority of the North. 

“Tomorrow morning we will settle the matter of the prisoners,” Sansa says. “Tonight, we will dine together. Lord Greatjon, Lord Balon, someone will escort you to your rooms so you can freshen up before dinner.”

Excitement over, the crowd begins to disperse, and Sansa herself is preparing to leave when Asha approaches her.

“My lady,” Asha says, stiff, like she isn’t used to formal addresses. 

“Yes, Captain?”

A small smile flits across her face. “Might my father and I see my brother before we go to our rooms?”

“Of course,” Sansa says. “I’ll bring you to where he’s staying.”

Sansa leads the small party, and Ser Sandor brings up the rear, her ever-present shadow. She suspects he’s disappointed with the lack of conflict recently, and she has a deeper suspicion that he hopes to be the one to execute Ramsay tomorrow. She’ll have to think of something else to grant him. 

Ramsay is hers.

“A room?” Asha asks when they reach the guards. “I had expected a cell.”

Sansa blocks the door. “Had I found him before I realized he didn’t succeed in burning my brothers alive, his fate would have been much different. But finding my brother softened my heart. As did -” Sansa looks at the closed door then at the Greyjoys.

“Your brother was mistreated at the hands of the Boltons,” Sansa says. “I decided he would not be mistreated at ours.”

“Except for when your father kidnapped him?” Lord Balon asks.

Asha winces but still reaches towards her weapon when Sansa steps forward.

“My father brought Theon into our home and raised him as one of his sons,” Sansa says. “I always thought it was strange that he would reward your family for your betrayal. I tell you now, Lord Balon, I am not my father. The Greyjoys will not betray my family a third time.”

“Please forgive my father,” Asha says, each word sounding like it’s being pulled from her mouth. Sansa wonders if this is what Arya will sound like in ten years when she’s trying to be diplomatic - unnatural, forced. “He thought he lost all of his sons until recently.”

“I did lose all of my sons. I don’t know what Theon is anymore, but he’s not a man.”

So they do have some idea of what happened, Sansa thinks.

“The Boltons sent us a gift,” Asha says, mouth twisted in a grimace, “and I launched an attempted rescue of my brother. I know what to expect beyond that door.”

Sansa steps aside. “Then your brother is yours to see. But,” Sansa says, and both Greyjoys immediately turn their attention to her, “he is mine to punish. Should something happen to him, a different Greyjoy will have to bear the cost of his betrayal. Do you understand me?”

Asha is the first to nod and, after a nudge from his daughter, Lord Balon nods as well.

Sansa smiles. “I will see you at dinner then.”

~*~

Sansa wakes up before Rickon and Arya do, desperate for the chamber pot. She’d somehow forgotten how pregnancy makes her bladder exceptionally small. Once she relieves herself, she doesn’t see the point in going back to sleep.

The sun has begun to rise, and today is her big day.

She lights a candle and dresses herself as quietly as she can so she doesn’t wake her siblings. She wears a deep blue dress and covers it with her finest cloak, using one of her father’s direwolf clasps to hold it in place. She pins her hair back using her mother’s pins, and even though they’ve gone to be with the Seven, she feels them watching over her.

Father, be proud of me, she prays, before snapping her fingers to wake Nymeria from her sleep.

The direwolf follows Sansa out to the courtyard where the snow looks blue in the early morning light. Today, she’s going to stain some of the snow red.

“Good wolf,” she tells Nymeria, kneeling by her in the snow. It’s tough work kneeling without falling over, working around how absolutely massive her stomach has gotten, and now that she’s on the ground, she’s worried she’s not going to be able to get herself back up.

“You going to be a good wolf today?”

Nymeria gently butts her head against Sansa’s shoulder.

“I know you are,” Sansa says. She pulls a small scrap of cloth from one of her pockets. “Smell this, Nymeria.”

She holds it up to the direwolf’s nose.

“This is Ramsay’s,” Sansa says. She had one of the guards cut a piece of his shirt for her. 

Nymeria growls and tries to rip the fabric away. Sansa lets her.

“Good wolf. I want you to remember that smell. You’re going to need to, okay. And remember everything I told you about him. You can do that, right?”

Nymeria tosses her head.

“Good,” Sansa says. “Good. If I hug you now, will you bite me?”

She knows you can’t tame a direwolf, knows that they’ll always be wild, but she also knows she herself can’t ever be tamed, and she hopes Nymeria can recognize a kindred spirit in Sansa.

Nymeria nudges Sansa’s shoulder again, and Sansa wraps her arm around the wolf’s body.

“We belong in the North,” she tells Nymeria. “And the North belongs to us.”

She doesn’t know how long she kneels there in the snow, Nymeria at her side, but it’s long enough that the cold begins to seep through her cloak. Long enough that the sky is brightening around her.

“Stuck, my lady?”

She looks up to see Tyrion standing next to her. She didn’t notice him coming outside. Neither did Nymeria; or, at the very least, Nymeria didn’t think he was enough of a threat to warn Sansa. It’s that thought that makes Sansa smile and hold a hand out to her husband.

“Yes,” she says, “and I could use some help.”

Between the two of them, Sansa gets back on her feet, and she shakes the snow off her cloak. 

“Trouble sleeping?” Tyrion asks.

“The baby decided we’d slept enough,” Sansa says, “And I didn’t want to disturb Arya or Rickon. They deserve all the peace they can get.”

“Implying that you don’t deserve peace?” Tyrion asks.

Sansa sometimes forgets how clever her husband is. “Today I’m going to earn my peace,” she says. “Will you stand by my side, no matter what happens? No matter what I do?”

Tyrion grasps both her hands in his and holds them tight. “You’re my wife. We’re together until the Seven part us.”

“I’m afraid,” Sansa admits, the words sounding too loud in the quiet of the morning. “I’m afraid of what I have to do, and I’m afraid of who I’ll be when I do it, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t.”

“Is it something I can help you with?” Tyrion asks.

Sansa shakes her head. “I need to do this. I need to see it done. I -” she can’t explain  _ why _ this is so important, why she has to be the one to sentence Ramsay to die, why she has to watch it happen, make sure it happens. 

“For your friend,” he says.

She hesitates. She’s been waiting for him to say something about that since she first asked for Ramsay to be brought here. Is he going to press her? She’s not sure how much scrutiny her story can take.

But he lets it go. “I know well your resolve, my lady,” he says. “If a thing needs doing, then you will see it done. And I’ll stand by your side while you do, and, if this is something you can gain strength from, I will hold you tonight when it’s over, when it is only the two of us and you feel safe to express your true feelings.”

“I would like that,” Sansa says. It’s an understatement, but she doesn’t know how to express the swell of feelings in her heart. “I am almost tempted to kiss you where you stand.”

“Oh?” Tyrion asks. “And why not?”

“It’s morning,” she says. “Kissing is for nighttime.”

Tyrion smiles, soft, private, just for her. “Of course,” he says. “Should we see if Gage is awake yet? You’re going to need your strength for today, and if breakfast is anything like dinner last night then I’m afraid I won’t have much of an appetite.”

There had been too many people and too much bad blood at the table last night. Thankfully, no actual blood was drawn, but there were several times Sansa thought they were close to such an outcome.

“I am ready for Winterfell to be ours again,” Sansa says.

“So am I,” Tyrion says. 

He lets go of her hands, but takes her arm and turns her towards the kitchens. Sansa spares one look back at Nymeria, and the wolf is still trying to shred the small scrap of Ramsay’s shirt. Everything is in place, Sansa thinks, now she just has to begin the show.

She takes a deep breath and walks with her husband into the warmth of the Keep.

~*~

Everyone is on the ramparts to bear witness to Sansa’s judgment. She wonders if this is how her father felt every time he had to draw his sword to dispense justice; shaky, a touch remorseful, but above all, centered.  _ Righteous _ .

She has the Greyjoys on her left and the Karstarks on her right, because this is a lesson to them above all, and she wants to see their reactions. 

There are Lannister men scattered throughout the representatives from the various Houses, and Bronn stands tall and armored behind Sansa and her husband in case anyone takes exception to what Sansa intends. 

Her husband is a comforting presence at her side, and Arya and Rickon stand on the other side, but Sansa isn’t as comforted by them. Further down, she knows that 10 year old Lyanna Mormont stands with her mother.

Sansa had pulled Lady Maege aside after breakfast and told her there would be no repercussions if little Lyanna didn’t attend today’s…activities.

Lady Maege had met Sansa’s gaze with her own, steady eyes and asked, “Did your father shield you from what he did as Lord of Winterfell? Do you intend to shield your brother and sister?”

When Sansa answered no, Lady Maege had smiled, a touch sad, and gone to fetch her daughter from the table where the children ate.

And now here they all are.

Outside the gates of Winterfell, just a few feet beyond the entrance, Ser Sandor stands with the prisoner. Ramsay is still chained and the blanket he had in his cell has been fashioned into a poor imitation of a cloak. Sansa can’t imagine it is keeping him very warm.

“Ramsay Snow,” Sansa says, her voice carrying easily to all those who need to hear it. “You have been charged with betraying the Warden and Wardenness of the North, first committing crimes against my father, Lord Eddard Stark, and now myself. You have marched on the Eyrie and taken what didn’t belong to you, and killed those related to me by blood and by marriage.”

“Didn’t just kill them,” Ramsay says cheerfully.

Sansa doesn’t let him faze her. She’s in Winterfell, and no one can frighten her in her own home. Not ever again. “Flaying is forbidden in the North, yet another crime you are being charged with. For your betrayal of me, my House, and the North, you shall pay with your life.”

“You going to have your beast do it?” Ramsay asks, tilting his head towards Ser Sandor. “Or are you going to be a true Lady of Winterfell and kill me with your own hands?”

“Ser Sandor,” Sansa says.

She cherishes the flash of fear in Ramsay’s eyes, the proof that he isn’t as unshakeable as he’d like to pretend. Even more, she cherishes the moment Ser Sandor releases Ramsay’s chains and the boy stands there, gaping like a fish.

“My father taught me mercy just as he taught me justice,” Sansa says, as Ser Sandor walks back towards the gates. He’s the only one who knows of her plans, because she can’t bear to touch Ramsay, and someone had to escort and unchain him.

“So, I offer you the mercy of the North,” Sansa says. There are gasps and outraged mutters around her. She ignores them as easily as she ignored Ramsay. “I know how much you enjoy a good hunt, so here is my sentence and my mercy. If Nymeria hasn’t dragged your pathetic corpse to my feet by dawn then your life is yours to keep.”

Ramsay’s eyes grow wide, fear pushing every other emotion out, and Sansa’s lips curl into a smile. She’s found that those who are the cruelest don’t know what to do when that cruelty is turned on them.

“You might want to start running,” Sansa tells him. “Ser Sandor? Release Nymeria.”

Ramsay doesn’t move, as if his feet are frozen to the ground. Nymeria bolts out of the Keep, a blur of white like the blizzards that sweep through the North. She knocks Ramsay to the ground with a growl and then she digs her teeth into his throat and  _ rips _ .

Blood sprays and stains the snow and shreds of skin get flung as Nymeria tears his body apart, but Sansa doesn’t look away. This is her sentence, and she will see it through. 

Sansa doesn’t know how much time passes - a minute? five? - before Nymeria finally stops. She sits beside the body but looks up at Sansa as if to ask  _ did I do well _ ?

The answer, of course, is yes, and Sansa will clean Nymeria herself and spoil her at dinner tonight.

Throughout his death, Ramsay didn’t make a sound.

Sansa takes a steadying breath and turns to her left. That is only one prisoner dealt with.

She insisted on Theon watching what happened to Ramsay, and when she steps towards the boy, his sister takes a step toward him like she intends to protect him from Sansa. Four Lannister men step forward as well, but Sansa ignores them all.

She touches her hand to Theon’s unshaven face, cups his cheek and turns his face towards hers. “Did you see what I did to him?” she asks.

She can feel the tremble in Theon’s body. He nods, a jerky movement that almost knocks her hand away.

“The boy who tortured you will never lay a finger on you again,” Sansa says. She turns Theon’s face to the bloody mess in the snow. “He will never hurt another soul.”

You and I are safe, Sansa thinks. We have escaped his nightmare at last.

“Th-thank you,” Theon says.

Sansa pats his cheek and then turns away. “We will reconvene in the Great Hall and see if there are any petitions to be heard today.”

She leads the assembled crowd down the stairs and not a single person utters a sound as they follow her. The silence continues as they arrange themselves in the Great Hall, and Sansa enjoys the way it grows, the way everyone looks to her to break it. 

But she only has eyes for the Greyjoys, and she stares Lord Balon down, challenging him to break first and speak.

There is only one person who might bring petition to her today, and everyone in the room knows it. Only one person in this room has something they want that badly.

Honestly, after the display she just put on, she expected Lord Balon to break sooner. She underestimated the stubbornness of Greyjoys.

But break he does, just not how she expected.

“If you think I’ll beg for that miserable wretch’s life,” he begins, jabbing a finger at his son.

“I don’t,” Sansa interrupts smoothly, willing to speak now that he’s spoken first. She allows a smile to grace her lips at Lord Balon’s surprise. “Everyone here knows of the Greyjoys and their pride. It’s that pride that’s landed you in this situation. Pride that caused you to rebel against my father, caused you to lose two sons to death and one to your enemy’s house. Pride that caused you to yet again to rebel, this time against my brother. You seem to have difficulty learning from your mistakes, Lord Balon. What will this latest rebellion cost your House?”

Her eyes stray towards Theon. It’s obvious what this latest rebellion has cost. He has a shell of a son, an heir that can’t continue the family line. What Ramsay has done to the Greyjoys is worse than anything Sansa could do. 

She would thank him but...well, she’s already killed him.

Instead, she addresses Lord Balon again. “The Seven have seen to show you the cost of betrayal. Your son turned on those who had welcomed him as family, and he was betrayed in turn by Ramsay Snow. Who am I to say the gods were not thorough enough in their punishment? Your son’s life is yours. No begging required.”

Lord Balon splutters, but Sansa cuts him off as easily as she did the last time.

“But if any of you think I am being soft because I am a woman, listen carefully to what I say next. You will not send Theon to one of your small islands to be forgotten. Theon is your son, your heir, and you will continue to treat him as such. He will be at every banquet, every wedding, every Council you have. Anyone who comes to the Iron Islands will see him and see the price for breaking your allegiance to the Starks.”

Sansa didn’t think the hall could grow quieter but somehow it does. She wonders if this is what power feels like, so many eyes on you, so many breaths held as they wait to hear what you have to say.

“Theon Greyjoy will be a living reminder to his family and others to honor the oaths you make to Winterfell,” Sansa says. She spares a glance at the Karstarks. They have gone quite pale. 

Good.

“Now,” Sansa says. “We’re having an early lunch today. I know the Karstarks have been at Winterfell long enough and must be anxious to return to Karhold. And after missing your son for so long, Lord Balon, you must be eager to return home with him.”

Neither family dares to disagree with her. It fills her with satisfaction but also makes her a bit queasy. She understands that a certain amount of fear is needed in order to rule, but the amount of fear in the room is overwhelming. She doesn’t know how Joffrey and Cersei did it. 

She stands and holds her arm out for her husband. “Escort me to lunch, my lord?”

“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” Tyrion tells her.

She risks a look at her husband, something in her loosening when she sees nothing but respect and a touch of awe in his eyes. She smiles, something genuine, no malice lurking in its corners, and feels herself relax. 

Together they can rule the North.

~*~

No one is eager to linger in Winterfell after Sansa’s display, and she has to admit, she welcomes the quiet once it’s just her family in the Keep. 

The respect from the Lannister men, the respect from  _ Ser Sandor _ is also welcome, even if it’s a little strange. She wonders how many letters Lord Tywin is going to get recounting her actions on the ramparts of Winterfell.

“We’ve brought peace to the North,” Sansa tells her husband as their breakfast winds down. 

Truly, they finished eating some time ago, but Sansa feels enormous lately, and the thought of getting out of her chair seems like too much effort. Much easier to pick the sugar off her pastry and pretend she hasn’t finished eating. 

“And not a moment too soon,” Tyrion tells her. He waves a raven scroll.

Sansa wants to say no, wants to close her eyes and cover her ears and ignore whatever dire warning they’ve just been given. Haven’t they earned their peace?

She sighs. “What catastrophe requires our attention now?”

“Word from the Wall,” Tyrion says and Sansa struggles upright in her chair, feels a moment of regret for all the letters she meant to write Jon and never got around to. “From the Lord Commander Jon Snow.”

“Lord Commander?” Sansa asks. “He’s done well for himself.”

Tyrion shrugs. “It’s a plea for help. He’s been Beyond the Wall. The wildlings are amassing an army, and they’re marching on Castle Black.”

Sansa makes the sign of the Seven. “Winter is coming, then. And they’re trying to flee from it.”

“The Wall doesn’t have enough men to hold them off,” Tyrion tells her. “Your brother wants anyone we can spare.”

“Can we spare anyone?” Sansa asks. “Everyone’s been cowed for the moment, but if they sense weakness they’ll strike. But if we sit and protect ourselves and let the Wall be overrun then there will be no one to stand against the winter.”

She looks to Tyrion for the answer even though she knows he won’t have it. There isn’t an easy solution here. 

“Even if we sent half our men it wouldn’t make a difference,” Tyrion tells her, “Not if the rumors I’ve been hearing are true. The wildlings have united for the first time in their history. There’s something out there that scares them more than their hatred for each other.”

Winter is coming, Sansa thinks. She knows it in her heart. Her family has been warning of it for decades, and now that it is finally here, everyone is too divided to make the stand they need. 

“We have to send people,” Sansa says. The baby pushes, hard, like it wants to get out and help. “The Wall cannot fall. We -” she presses a hand to her stomach - “we need to write Lord Tywin. The Wall  _ cannot _ fall.”

Sansa groans, her body clenching then releasing. “But first,” she says, gritting her teeth. “I think I need to get to the birthing room.”


End file.
